


Light to a Blind Man

by Tspoon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Era, Emotional Sex, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Grantaire is a Mess, Grantaire's got muscle and Enjolras is a fan, I don't google translate french at you I promise, Ireland, Lighthouses, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Barricade, Slow Burn, Sort Of, Survivor Guilt, Weather, lots of Meaningful Looks, most of the canon deaths did occur, no beta we die like men, sacrilegious talk, some characters are misplaced, the ocean gets talked about a lot, they are very flawed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-09-18 21:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tspoon/pseuds/Tspoon
Summary: Grantaire’s life had been in an endless grey monochrome for some years now. He could recall, when first asking for this job, the warnings of what could drive a man mad out on these cliffs. He’d been warned about the isolation, the sounds, the stories. Yet none had mentioned how the color leached out of the world the longer he stayed. His bed sheet had been green, once upon a time. The nights it spent in the salt and dampness, never again knowing what it was to be clean or dry, robbed the color from its folds as well. Now it was a faded grey like all the rest, save when the sky cleared and turned the horizon a watery blue.Grantaire is a lighthouse keeper, Enjolras is the failed revolutionary who washes up on his shores





	1. Beachcombing

Grantaire’s life had been in an endless grey monochrome for some years now. He could recall, when first asking for this job, the warnings of what could drive a man mad out on these cliffs. He’d been warned about the isolation, the sounds, the stories. Yet none had mentioned how the color leached out of the world the longer he stayed. His bed sheet had been green, once upon a time. The nights it spent in the salt and dampness, never again knowing what it was to be clean or dry, robbed the color from its folds as well. Now it was a faded grey like all the rest, save when the sky cleared and turned the horizon a watery blue. 

But he was not paid for clear skies. By common sense he should celebrate when the sky clouded over as it had that morning, not sigh and reluctantly climb to adjust the light at the top of the tower. He’d seen the storm come in from the sea in the north, rainfall making the horizon blurry. It had slowly made its way closer to shore, the clouds too dark and heavy to imagine how they didn’t fall to the earth. It was no grand tempest, but it would provide a shroud for the rocky shore nevertheless. 

He recognized the importance of his job, abstractly understanding that human lives did depend on it. He surely wouldn’t shirk the duty, but he also felt little to no urgency at the sound of rain beginning to fall. Carigleah was no great port city, and the few large boats that did pass by were practiced enough on their routes to stay far enough from shore. He was mostly positioned for the sake of the few fisherman making their way to and fro, though he doubted many of them would have stayed out in the threat of storm. Making a living mattered far less if you were no longer alive. 

Grantaire methodically rolled a piece of wood in his hand, inspecting it with what from the outside would have appeared as intense focus. It would be a knight, he decided, staring at the little wood chip in his hands with a level of absentmindedness. A lofty destiny for the little scrap, he would admit. A loyal and brave warrior, like in the stories, though as of yet he had no one to be loyal too. Grantaire used the knife tip to begin the lines of the face. A rogue then, with fealty to no one and happy for it. 

The chess set would likely never be finished. Grantaire was surrounded by the half-made corpses of dead projects, spilling out from his little stone house, into the surrounding grass and up into the tower that was his charge. His little knight would no doubt soon join their ranks. 

For now it provided a pastime as Grantaire watched the sky darken. He pocketed the wooden rogue, peering out the distorted glass of his window at the tower. He had checked the oil lamp and mirror earlier that day, but as the wind picked up he figured it was worth looking over again. 

His home sat at the base of the base of the lighthouse, both painted white by someone’s past attempt to make them a matching pair. The lighthouse had once been a watchtower, though for whom Grantaire couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know of any records saying how long it had sat empty before someone had looked out at the point and thought of sticking a torch on the end. 

The stone was still exposed on the interior, lining the narrow, clockwise turning stairs. Those also had remnants of forgotten projects, back when Grantaire tried to use paints to break the endless grey monotony. A heretic amalgamation of mythologies and religions, with satyrs, Selkies and Seraphs alike illuminated by the candle he brought up with him. Most looked rather grotesque, unfinished and uneven on the rock surfaces. It had been quite some time since he’d last tried to paint anything. It was too damp for any sort of canvas, nor could he really afford them. Regardless, it seemed the color was leached out of everything the longer it stayed there on that seaside hill, so they served little purpose. 

Wind whistled through unsealed cracks, giving a chill to the air as he made his ascent. During the greater storms he’d sometimes bring a blanket up with him and spend the night in the tower itself, a small watch room had been built for that purpose, but it was often too cold for Grantaire to use when not necessary. As he checked over it now, he decided it was not one of those nights. The lantern had enough oil, the mirror was clean, and the windows sound. He would spend the night in his incrementally warmer house instead. 

He didn’t have much to complain about, he knew. The house was larger than some in town that housed families of ten or greater. It had probably been built intending to House such a brood, thinking how any lonely lighthouse keeper would need company. Grantaire didn’t believe he minded the silence, but sometimes even a cottage of this size did feel cold and vacant. 

Grantaire ducked in from the rain, going to check that he had cleared the fireplace before it had gotten any of the kindling wet. The rain had begun falling much harder, consistently drumming against the roof in a way that filled any silence. Darkness was well on its way so he lit a candle at his bedside before removing the knight from his pocket. He hoped to finish him, though it had been so long since any real inspiration struck. It served well enough as idle occupation for the night he supposed, as did the wine bottle on his shelf. He always managed to keep good company on the lonely nights. 

When the weak light of morning filtered in, indicating the storm’s passing, he rose with it and went to observe the sky. The rain had ceased, but there was no blessing of blue. Only a flat, high ceiling of clouds. Yet another color stolen by the grey, he thought with some exhaustion. It had been so long since he had last seen his reflection, he sometimes wondered if he too had become weathered and ashen like his surroundings. 

Grantaire had an after-storm ritual that he often followed. The lighthouse was on no steep peak, rather sticking out above what looked more akin to a pile of grassy rocks. Because of this, it was not difficult for him to make his descent to the beaches surrounding the point. They too were grey stone, and did not make for the easiest walking, but after the rougher waves they sometimes offered items of interest. Be it some unfortunate fish or clams, or perhaps an interesting bit of wood or glass. The rewards were rare, but welcome when they did occur. 

He ventured down the path weakly carved by feet before his own, walking slowly over the slick mud as not to slip all the way down the hill. The rain had mistaken the clear dirt for a stream, and smoothed many of the features that would have made the descent easier. He eventually reached the water’s edge, bringing the curving shores to the right of the peninsula into view. 

The ocean stretched out vast and grey before him, the only thing stopping it being the Americas across that great distance. The water an unsettling stillness, the only movement being the gentle sloshing up the shore towards his feet. Grantaire had seen these waves reach great heights, as much as at times making him fear of being washed away in his home. Yet now there was no evidence of any such disturbance. 

Grantaire picked his way along the waterline, watching for anything of interest. It seemed the gulls has been far luckier than he, if the still wet shell remains were any indication. There were only a few things worth pocketing, limited to a bit of brown sea glass that caught his eye and a couple of untouched shellfish. He’d also come across a crab which had been a source of excitement until he turned it over to find the meat pecked out. 

It began to look like a light rain was on its way, so Grantaire sped his pace as to reach the path on the other side. The lighthouse was still visible, sitting up the slope to his left. The multicolored grasses swayed at its base. The breeze was picking up, but as of yet it still brushed Grantaire’s cheeks like a gentle lover. He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the smell of the salty air and the sound of the rocks moving under his feet. 

He had clearly paused too long, as the first raindrop to hit his cheek and shattered the moment of reverie. He hastily began climbing over the larger stones, hoping to avoid being soaked through before reaching the house. In his haste Grantaire stumbled. He would have fallen completely had he not used his arm to brace himself against the rock. Grantaire took the moment to readjust his footing before continuing, but was distracted by a glimpse of an unusual color for the beach.

There was a vibrant red which Grantaire could see peaking through from his position. Despite more raindrops hitting the crown of his head, he descended and moved to the other side of the rock instead of continuing on. Perhaps something had fallen off a passing ship and washed ashore, though it was likely nothing more than a torn flag that had blown away during the storm. There was some use he could find for it, he was sure. By any matter it was more interesting than an empty crab shell. 

Grantaire was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted him as he rounded the rock in pursuit of the flash of red. His first thoughts were of stories he’d heard, of the gancanagh, selkies, or some other otherworldly creature that would explain the sight before him. The red was a fabric, but not of a torn flag. It was the tattered waist coat of a young man, sprawled on the stones with golden hair fanning out behind him like a crown. 

Grantaire was not a superstitious man, but there was a moment where he could not bring himself to get closer. If this man was aos sí, which Grantaire would have been better at doubting had he not appeared so ethereal, no good would come of engaging with him. He stood far longer than any person of his learning should, before good sense finally triumphed and he hurried to check the body. 

Rain blinded him to some degree, the hairs on his forehead guiding rivulets down his face. Grantaire pushed the offenders from his face as he knelt beside the stranger. He felt his own breath stolen as he watched the man inhale slowly, proving that he still lived. There were evidence of injuries, such as one would likely sustain being tossed by waves until reaching the shore. The most severe Grantaire could readily spot was the uncomfortable way the left arm splayed out beside him. 

He bit back the nausea the sight induced, shaking himself to motivate action. Grantaire could not in good conscious leave a living person without help. The man was not capable of asking it for himself, so Grantaire had to work upon the assumption that he would favor a warm house to the rocky shore and hastened to lift him. 

His first attempt to move the limp body were unsuccessful, the dead weight being too heavy for Grantaire to carry in his arms alone. Grantaire said a silent apology to the unconscious fellow before ungently throwing him onto his shoulders. Gripping an arm and a leg, putting most of the duress on his legs, was the best possibility Grantaire had of getting him to the house without assistance. He could only pray the man would not unexpectedly wake mid journey. 

If Grantaire’s attempts at walking across the beach had before been slow, it was agonizing with the added weight.The path back towards the house was the most difficult of all, the mud causing both to nearly topple over on several occasions. Grantaire expected a complete recovery of the man, because he refused to accept that he might have spent all the effort on a dead man. If the fool had so much as a lingering cough Grantaire would riot. 

Shelter from the rain was a blessed thing, which Grantaire much appreciated as he made it through the doorway. The man was deposited on his cot, though Grantaire did wince at the contact of the very wet clothes with his bedding. He gave a secondary once over, better without hair in his eyes but still limited by the clothes Grantaire hesitated to remove. The most alarming issue was still the shoulder, which with some pointed touches of his hands, he assumed was dislocated. 

Grantaire was not entirely sure how to proceed. It would take no little amount of time to retrieve the town doctor, and he was not overly comfortable with leaving a stranger in his home unattended. This left him with an unpleasant responsibility, as the shoulder very evidently needed to be reset. 

“I must apologize for the discomfort, sir,” Grantaire said quietly, not earning any reply. 

He’d seen this done once, so he could hope the skill was transferable. Grantaire adjusted the man’s body closer to a sitting position so he had better leverage. He counted to three silently, but couldn’t bring himself to action by the last number. He took a steadying breath, counted again, and shoved the joint back into place. 

Grantaire flinched backwards when the movement dragged a loud, pained gasp from his guest. Both he and the newly wakened gentleman sprung into action, Grantaire quickly apologizing and letting go of his arm, the stranger panickedly babbling and backing himself into a corner of the bed. 

Grantaire readily took offense, he had been helping after all, before he noticed the man’s eyes were not trained on him. They were unfocused and darting around between whatever fevered hallucinations he blamed for the pain. Grantaire berated himself, fever should have been the first thing he checked for. Then he may have at least been prepared for the disorientation the other was likely experiencing. 

The mumbling continued as the man curled in on himself. Grantaire could understand only parts of it, but was bewildered to find that it was not any language he would have expected to hear. English of Gaelic he would have been unsurprised by, but the muffled words leaving the mans mouth were a tongue Grantaire had not heard spoken aloud in several years. 

“It is alright, I will not hurt you,” The French words came after his surprise faded. 

The stranger made no acknowledgement of Grantaire speaking at all, but the previous burst of energy was visibly fading. He sank inward, eyelids falling as he continued to mumble nonsensically. His animation faded back into the fitfullness he had experienced in sleep.

“What assistance do you need from me?” Grantaire tried again, yielding no better results than the first attempt. 

Grantaire sat on the cold floor, where he had landed in his retreat, watching the bed with a mix of exasperation and helplessness. His new housemate slipped back into unconsciousness, offering no further explanation to ease Grantaire's confusion. He was left with the sounds of the falling rain and the erratic breathing of his companion, still far less alone than he wished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic does have a soundscape set up for it if anyone is in to that sort of thing
> 
> https://countryside.ambient-mixer.com/cottage-next-to-the-lighthouse


	2. Words on the Wind

Grantaire had not slept. He’d spent much of the night staring at the unexpected new presence in his home, waiting for him to wake. He’d finished carving a second knight piece, downed a bottle of wine, and attempted to start on a queen. The man’s sleep had been fitful, giving Grantaire a fright every time he moved. Every time Grantaire was convinced of his wakefullness, and every time the stranger settled quickly back in to sleep.

His nerves were thoroughly frayed when his companion did come into consciousness. Grantaire, as with all the times before, quickly took notice. The shifting, slow blinks, and wince with the attempt to move his left arm. He waited still before attempting to ask anything, watching to see if the man would fall back into sleep yet again. 

“Is this a prison cell?” The man asked quietly, not directed at anyone but himself. 

“You do my lodgings a great disservice, sir. Surely they are not that bad?” Grantaire joked, hoping to ease his own anxieties and that of the other’s. The man’s eyes moved to him, still somewhat unfocused and unfazed by his attempt at humor. 

“Where- where am I?” 

“Carraig liath, or Carigleah for those mapmakers who fail to do their research.” That joke too went without reaction. 

“I was,” The man’s brow furrowed, attempting to sort through muddled thoughts, “I was on a ship. We were meant to find port in Ireland, then continue on to the Americas.” The brow furrowed further, “I was on a ship.”

“You must have shipwrecked, I found you washed ashore.”

“Shipwrecked?” The right hand came to press his forehead. Grantaire wondered if he had sustained any previously undetected injuries to the head. If so, Grantaire would be utterly hopeless in any attempt of help. “Shipwrecked. Of course.” The man continued to repeat the word, making it a mantra. Grantaire feared further of an unseen injury. 

“What is your name?” Grantaire asked, hopeful to get a reply. He went unheard, only receiving another muttered ‘shipwrecked’ before the man returned to sleep.

Grantaire spent another period of time restlessly waiting for the man to stir once again. The cycle of waking and sleeping did not make for great conversation. What Grantaire did manage was new highs of productivity, nervous energy fueling him as he swept the floor, fetched fresh water from the well, and rekindled the fire. The strange feeling of another body in his usually isolated space was not easy to distract from. 

He was not able to keep his mind from wandering entirely. The unexpected use of French had reminded Grantaire of his family. It was shameful, how long it had been since he had given them a thought. He wondered if they had been so anxious when he has stumbled into their lives. He was fortunate, endlessly so, that of all doorways to collapse in he had chosen the gate of that particular convent.

Cosette still sent him fond letters, he would collect them whenever he was in town. He rarely responded, often with the excuse that he wouldn’t know where to send them. That excuse lost merit now that she and Papa has settled in Dublin for some time. The old man’s paranoia that had driven them across the channel finally waning enough for a pause. Grantaire was grateful, for their sakes. It had been several years since they had passed through carraig liath and Grantaire had told them he would no longer keep pace, but he was hopeful that they too would find peace. 

A soft sound pulled Grantaire’s attention back to the visitor. There had been several more false wakings, so he waited until the man blinked and revealed eyes that were far more alert than before. He started with his queries this time, to improve his chances of answer. 

“Can you understand me?” Grantaire asked in English. He was greeted by a look of confusion, so he repeated the question in French. 

“Yes,” The man said with a voice hoarse from illness. He watched Grantaire with a guarded suspicion. “What was it you said before?” 

“I asked the same, I was unsure if the French was simply a habit you fall back on or your only tongue.” 

“It is not my only tongue, I was schooled in Latin.” The man said somewhat defensively. 

“Forgive me, I was unaware I was in the company of a scholar,” it would appear even when the man could hear his jokes he had no better sense of humor. He quickly moved on. “What is your name?” 

“Enjolras. I think I remember you asking before.” Grantaire nodded, the stiff politeness of their exchange nearly suffocating him. “Did you say that I have indeed landed in Ireland?” 

“Yes, though by my fair guess is that you’re rather off your intended mark. There are no vessels to the America’s from here.” Enjolras gingerly moved himself to sit up at the mention of America. Grantaire considered helping, but decided against it and remained in his chair. 

“Did I talk a great deal, in my illness? I don’t remember discussing my destination.” 

“You were fevered, of what you did say I could understand only parts.” Grantaire leaned back. “You told me you shipwrecked, do you think any of your fellows may have survived?” Enjolras looked away, eyes closing. 

“No," He said softly. "I do not think any of them saw the light of the lighthouse as I did. They would not have known which way to go.” His good arm curled around himself, though he remained impressively stoic with the confession. Grantaire did move then to lay what he prayed was a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

“I saw no others on the beach, so I fear you may be right in that guess.” 

Enjolras gave a small nod, and Grantaire withdrew his hand. The man was still hot from fever, and the warmth lingered in Grantaire’s fingers even after the contact had ceased. He attempted to distract himself by continuing the conversation. 

“I imagine you would want to wash out whatever salt the rain did not yet remove. There is a well and a pail of rainwater by the door, whichever takes your preference.” Enjolras’s cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“I do not think myself capable of standing unsupported.” 

Grantaire too colored at the visual that suggested. The obvious solution would be to offer assistance, help the man undress and wash without comment. Grantaire could not imagine him executing that plan easily, so he chose to ignore it. He had barely spoken to another person in the last month, he would not be blamed for any failings in etiquette. His other reasons were of little consequence. 

“I have a nightshirt you may use, it would alleviate some of the discomfort.” He offered instead. Enjolras still did not free him from embarrassment.

“If it is not an inconvenience, could I ask you assistance in removing my waistcoat?" He held out the arm he could move, which shook from the effort. "My fingers are still too weak for the buttons.” Grantaire felt a pang of guilt for refusing the unsaid question before, eyes flicking down to the left arm Enjolras kept close to his chest. He also felt frustration at the situation Enjolras was unknowingly trapping him in. This direct request would not be so easily dodged.

“Of course.” Grantaire answered, trying his best to maintain a polite formality. He moved nearer to assist as asked.

The intimacy of the action was not lost on Grantaire, much the opposite. He was not wholly unexperienced in the world. They called them molly houses here, though he had not seen one since his days of travel. He likely had not been so close with someone since, a thought that plagued him with nonsensical guilt and convinced him to keep his eyes firmly trained on the buttons. Enjolras was watching him, he knew, there was little else the man could be doing in this proximity. 

“What is your name?” The earlier embarrassment was gone from the man’s voice. Grantaire marveled at his casualness.

He had never heard any story of fae speaking French, so he did not hesitate long before giving his true name. And even if he were wrong, he could not imagine being enslaved by the aos sí would be as great a punishment as this. He undid another button. 

“Grantaire.”

“So, you’re a Frenchman?” Enjolras asked, making Grantaire's efforts to ignore him rather difficult.

“Not by residence for some years now.” There was a thoughtful hum from Enjolras, which stirred the curls on Grantaire’s brow. He kept his head bent still.

Finally the buttons were undone. He helped to gently maneuver the injured arm out of the waistcoat. The few inches closer they moved to do so sent Grantaire’s pulse to great speeds. He wondered if it was audible. Enjolras went to unlace the front of his shirt, bending his head so that the long golden strands tickled Grantaire's cheeks. Grantaire flinched away from the nearness, his heartbeat and breathing both suffering for it. 

“If you will excuse me, I must return to my work now,” he said, standing up quickly. He could no longer stand this stranger and these innocent intimacies.

To some length, Grantaire knew that his rapid escape had been far too hasty to make his lie believable. His unexpected guest had been awake for scarcely an hour, and Grantaire had not made his work seem urgent until that moment. Grantaire would have to pray that the man only thought him eccentric instead of the many other titles the cause and effect might bring him to think.

After a few long, steadying breaths he did take the opportunity to check things in the lantern. He had made himself go out in the cold, it would only serve him to make the journey worth something. He made no haste climbing the staircase, giving Enjolras ample time to finish his dressing. Grantaire knew he would not be able to use this excuse in every interaction, and he knew too how ridiculous it was to be experiencing the guilt he held. Most men could touch, embrace or kiss without issue, though Grantaire could not ever bring himself to do the same.

The flat, grey sky again greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. There was no suggestion of storm, which Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to be glad for. It would have brought him another excuse, if one that lead to more work. He would still not curse himself by wishing for more rain. Grantaire exited the glass lantern out onto the widow’s walk, eyes still trained on the sky. The wind felt more bracing at this height than it did at the base, but Grantaire welcomed it to help still his rapidly beating heart. Wind over the water caused the smallest of white crests, the small movements almost seeming like a trick of the eye. He left it only to retrieve the rum from the watch room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Enj feels like a bit of an ass in the next couple chapters, I would point to the fact that he's experienced a lot of trauma, lost Combferre who was like 80% of his impulse control, and is bored out of his mind. Some irritability is fair in my opinion


	3. Two and Fro

“Today I plan on going into town to fetch the doctor,” Grantaire told Enjolras as he handed him some bread and water. 

Their fingers brushed during the exchange, though Grantaire offered him little more acknowledgement than that. After spending much of the night sitting on the widow's walk watching the ocean, Grantaire had attempted to convince himself to play the part of aa distant but helpful host. He had no practice in the role, and was not entirely sure what that entailed, so he had come to the decision of calling on the doctor as his best chance to both assist and escape. 

“I don’t think that necessary.” Even through Grantaire's hungover haze, the reproach in his voice did not go unnoticed.

Enjolras had been waspish since his waking, though Grantaire was of a mind that it stemmed more from his frustrations over his physical limitations than Grantaire's own behavior. He had spilled water down himself just earlier due to his weakened grip, and had been cold and aloof with Grantaire as a response. Misdirected anger was not unfamiliar to Grantaire, though he had always excelled better at drawing the directed kind.

“Surely it is, you can not yet stand,” He said, watching for a reaction. “If you aren’t well enough to work, you aren’t well at all.”

“Well, far be it from me to distract you from your work. Tell me, does all lamp oil smell of rum or are my senses weakened as well?” 

The comment was flat and even, indicating no emotion but an underlying coldness. Despite its critical content, he was left wholly confused by if it was meant seriously or not. Grantaire was unnerved by the ambiguous response, and further sought out a sort of reaction he could recognize. 

“Caring for a guest, unexpected or otherwise, is a gift far greater than work.” He said with excessive sweetness. “It is no difficulty to go fetch help, really it is a privilege.” Enjolras, continuing his humorless streak, stared him down without reaction.

“I will heal on my own.” 

“Or you will not," He replied, "And I would prefer to know with some advance if a funeral needs planning.” Grantaire watched the line of Enjolras’s jaw shift. It was a little crack in the cold demeanor, revealing more visible annoyance and anger. Grantaire found it exhilarating.

“Citizen, I do not know the local customs well, but I imagine “no” is not singular to the French.” Grantaire laughed at the odd honorific.

“I had nearly forgot the French tradition of dying without need, I must thank you for reminding me. Would calling on the doctor be a suitable gift, Citizen?”

“Are you capable of being serious?” Enjolras asked, voice raised somewhat in frustration.

Grantaire had a ready reply, but a glance out the window reminded him of the goal for which he was currently arguing. The afternoon shower could be beaten both there and back if he left before the mist was burned off entirely, which he neared with every second he stayed to argue. The enjoyment of angering his guest was not worth any unnecessary wetness.

“As you are yet unable to glare both I and your injuries into compliance, into town I will go.” Enjolras continued his speaking, but Grantaire ignored him in his retreat. 

Grantaire exited with some unnecessary flourish, taking petty joy in the fact that whatever Enjolras had to say was cut off by the closing of the door. It was not a fair way to win, but it was the best tactic to thoroughly anger his opponent. Enjolras would be silently fuming for the entirety of Grantaire’s absence. 

The actions were not all out of malice. He likely would not have made the journey at all, if he hadn’t been truly concerned that he was underestimating the level of Enjolras’s injuries. He had not known the man long, but Grantaire did not think him the type to whine and explain what ailed him. The arm had been something he could see, and treat to the best of his abilities, but many injuries were not so easily spotted. 

Grantaire usually had very few reasons to travel to carraig liath if it were not to collect supplies. The people were not all cruel, but he did not feel a need to interact with them often. He could count the other reasons on one hand, in fact, and they had names. Joly, Musichetta, Bossuet and the Corinthe. 

None of those names were their original ones, of course. They’d resulted from a long night during which Grantaire had been very sober and very homesick. It didn’t happen often, but something about that night had made him feel particularly foreign and lonely. As a way to bring him comfort, Bossuet had insisted that he rechristen them in the french style. The names had unexpectedly stuck. 

It was no coincidence that they four had banded together of all the townspeople, they all stood apart for some reason or other. Joly, the doctor who was always afflicted by incurable ills, Grantaire knew was rumored to be cursed. Some whispered that when sickness came, it was he who caused it instead of cured it, as ridiculous as Grantaire knew that to be. Still, he had a kinder face than death, so he continued to practice. 

Musichetta was equally taboo in the eyes of those more superstitious. She was, and had always been, a bold and outspoken woman. She inherited the Corinthe, also a Grantaire-given name, from her father when he passed, and instead of marrying she continued to run it on her own. Her prices were fair and the beer good, so she never lacked patronage despite her difficulties in the social circles. 

Bossuet was the most unassuming of their strange collection. The fisherman was kind, friendly, and hardworking. It took Grantaire some time to realize what had condemned him at all. Bossuet never talked about his faith, but his absence from mass was always noted by the townspeople. He asked once, and Bossuet had told him something about how he would rather get a head start on the sea, which Grantaire was not sure what to make of.

Grantaire, himself an immigrant drunk, was endlessly grateful for the presence of other outcasts. As he walked the long, curving path towards the town, he did not entirely dread the journey. At this time Bossuet would be lng out, but Musichetta would be easy enough to track down. There was nothing in carraig liath she did not know, so he would find Joly’s whereabouts and continue from there. 

“Hullo, Mrs. Millea,” Grantaire called out, when he passed the house on the farthest outskirts of the town. He always greeted her, and she always had something bizarre to say, either to warn him with tales of past keepers or to offer insult.

“Ah, I see the clurichaun is off to town, in pursuit of more spirits no doubt.” It was an insulting day it would seem. 

“I shall not be stopped until the horsehoe itself halts my path.” Grantaire said, only somewhat mocking. Mrs. Millea shuddered. 

“May He have mercy on your soul, child.” Grantaire smiled flatly before continuing. He would not scare her too much, he did have some sense of morality. 

Living in such solitude often spared Grantaire from the unpleasantries of the smells and sounds that came along with the town. It was noticeable, the closer he got, that the air smelled less of salt and more of gutted fish. He wrinkled his nose, steering away from the docks to avoid the worst of the stench.

It was no Paris like the one that lived in Grantaire’s memories, only a few buildings stood any taller than one story. The Corinthe was actually one of the largest buildings, having a few extra rooms for travellers, though they were rarely used. Musichetta too lived in the building, something he had taken advantage of on the occasion that he stayed in town too late and had no motivation to make the walk home.

Grantaire hadn’t spent all that much time in Paris. He had been spared wandering its streets as a boy by the convent, but it had also been rather confining. After Cosette left the school, the three of them had lived in the actual city for only a short time before Papa had packed them up and taken them here. He still remembered the time fondly.

“The Frenchman is here!” Hollie Beirne, one of Musichetta’s servers, called when Grantaire came through the door. He could hear Chetta exclaim from the back room before coming out to greet him with a large hug. 

“A break in routine, what has the world come to? I didn’t expect you for another fortnight.” She gave him a look, one that told him if he did not explain, she would find out soon enough on her own. 

“You know well you must feed this bird before it sings. Regardless, it’s a long story, and I am in some hurry. Do you know where Joly’s gone off to?”

“He’s with the Gilroys. Their boy had taken ill this morning, or so they say. I’m fairly certain he just got into Mrs. Gilroy’s stash of spirits.” Grantaire shook his head.

“And who told you that tall tale?” Musichetta only tapped the side of her nose and smiled, a reply Grantaire knew he would never get past. “Nevermind, far be it from me to question your ways. I’ll go track down the good doctor now.”

“My dear you will wait a moment, he will be returning here soon. What’s got you so hurried?” Grantaire waved her off.

“We both know Joly will tell all to you by evening, let me keep my secrets now.” He grinned as she wacked him with the cleaning cloth. He dodged a second attempt by skipping towards the door.

“You are never so eager to go anywhere, tell me! Did some treasure wash ashore, or have you finally gone mad? And why Joly?” She called, indignant in his refusal.

“Keep asking your questions, maybe the dust I leave behind will answer them.” 

He made the second strategic exit of that day, glad that he had chosen to visit there first. Musichetta was always a warm presence, motherly despite her refusal to bear any children of her own. She claimed to have enough on her hands, with the three of them and the Corinthe. He teased her, as she did him, but he rarely left her doors unhappy. 

Grantaire found Joly not far from the Corinthe’s doors. He thankfully still had his tools, so they could leave immediately. Joly’s interest was certainly sparked at the news of a shipwreck, and he grew quiet when Grantaire told that he had found no other survivors. 

“He must feel very alone, being the only one to have survived. How has he been taking their loss?” Joly asked. 

Grantaire felt a pang of guilt, knowing it had never occurred to him to ask. Yes Enjolras had been cold and humourless, but Grantaire of all people knew the multitude of emotions that came with being a lone survivor. 

“He seems to be coping well,” he lied, knowing that he had no basis for the assumption. Enjolras had yet to cry, so if that was a scale by which to measure Grantaire had a moderate chance of telling some variation of the truth. 

“And you said that the left arm needed to be reset?” Joly stopped suddenly. “Ah, may we pause a moment?”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, stopping alongside him. Joly hissed in pain as he massaged his leg. Grantaire offered his arm for support along with Joly’s cane. 

“Apologies, the far walks are always difficult for me,” 

“Blame the fools that built the tower so far from town, not yourself,” Grantaire joked, staring across the mottled brown grass. Joly gave a small laugh before straightening. 

“They have my blame as well, but times such as these I envy the able-bodied man’s ability to visit a friend’s home without stopping every other step.” He tapped the cane twice on the ground before giving Grantaire a cheerful smile. “Let us continue on”

Grantaire was overcome with more guilt than before, reminded of how weak Enjolras still was. He had left him there, no ability to move should he need to drink or relieve himself. Going to find Joly was still the right decision, he was sure, but perhaps he should have done something to help Enjolras before leaving. His hospitality was certainly lacking. 

A light breeze followed them as they moved, combing through the brush along the narrow trail. It was not yet the time of year, but soon purple would mix in with all the shades of brown that made up the open land between the town and the lighthouse. The tower grew slowly larger against the grey sky as they walked. 

“What is that?” Joly asked, drawing Grantaire’s attention as they crossed the stream Grantaire arbitrarily considered the border of his land. He followed Joly’s eyeline towards his home, where he was greeted with what was becoming a familiar sight.

Enjolras was collapsed just past the doorway, similarly lain to how he was when Grantaire had first rounded that rock and found him on the beach. He hurried to a jog, leaving Joly behind as he went to check what had occured. 

Grantaire roused Enjolras after a few attempts, eyes opening blurrely as Grantaire supported his head. Enjolras looked around for a few minutes on obvious confusion before seeing the face above him. He looked absently at Grantaire's curls before speaking.

"I'm sorry, Courfeyrac, I did not expect to fall asleep."

"It is Grantaire, and this is a strange place to sleep." Enjolras's eyes focused further, and he looked even more tired than before.

“Apologies, Grantaire. It seems I fell unconscious.” he said, “I tried to walk out and find the well.” Grantaire questioned that explanation, turning to where the well very visibly sat in the other direction than Enjolras had been moving. Any question he could have asked was cut off with the arrival of Joly at his shoulder. Enjolras visibly tensed at the unexpected new presence, so Grantaire attempted to comfort him. 

“This is Joly, the doctor and close friend of mine.”

“French?” Enjolras asked, muffled by Grantaire’s chest as he lifted him.

“A nickname. I’m afraid I am still your best choice for conversation.” Grantaire was relieved for the much shorter distance he had to carry the man this time, he felt Joly may judge him if he had to throw Enjolras over his shoulder like a potato sack for a second time.

“Will you help translate?” Joly asked, already having pulled a chair beside the bed. Grantaire nodded, stepping back somewhat to remain out of the way. 

Grantaire watched, mostly, as Joly worked. His friend became a different person when slipping into the role of physician. He asked only questions about the afflictions, not making any sort of personal conversation. Grantaire knew this came from working in a town that did not want to be friends with him, but it also gave him a commanding presence that usually the small statured man would not achieve. 

He did his best to translate the questions and answers, sometimes fumbling over words that either had no equivalent or were simply to difficult for him to explain. At one point Joly told him to ask Enjolras to please remove his shirt, which Grantaire shortened to a terse “undress” that earned him raised eyebrows. 

Joly helped him remove the offending garment to examine the bruising around Enjolras’s shoulder. It revealed some other large bruises and a scrape along Enjolras’s side, which he explained as where he hit the edge of the boat. Joly poured some alcohol on that injury, and made a sling for Enjolras’s arm. He also asked to see Enjolras’s ankle.

“Why?” Enjolras asked, “I was not injured there.”

“I saw it when Grantaire was bringing you inside.” Joly replied when Grantaire repeated the question. “Now would you please let us proceed?”

Enjolras was resistant, but Joly had worked with everything from half feral children to angry drunks four times his size. He did not waver, and eventually Enjolras gave in. Joly examined the area for a few minutes, occasionally pressing areas and asking Enjolras what caused him pain. He eventually nodded to himself and spoke.

“I take it you broke this a while before the ship, though it seems to have set incorrectly.” He hummed. “It is doing fairly well, that considered, and will do good from this time off your feet. Unfortunately I don’t expect the limp I imagine it’s given you to go away any time soon.” Joly tapped his cane. “Perhaps we should form a club.”

“I had guessed as much,” Enjolras said, shoulders hunching ever so slightly.

“You had guessed, hmm? Careful or you may guess your way into my job.” The jab was more something Joly would say in conversation with Musichetta or Grantaire, but speaking through Grantaire in such a confusing way had perhaps eased his usual formality. 

“As long as I’m capable of doing nothing, I believe your position is safe.” A small smile made the comment more joking than anything Enjolras had said under Grantaire's roof so far.

“I’m not so sure, the town is content to pay Grantaire for much the same.”

“I refuse to translate any insult to my person.” Grantaire said, breaking the exchange and pushing the side of his friend’s head. 

“Ah, but we would not want to exclude your guest!” He gestured to Enjolras, whose eyes darted between them in confusion, waiting for Grantaire to explain. “Would you rather I rely on the small amount of french I have learned from you?” Grantaire knew well that whatever he didn’t remember teaching Joly likely could not be repeated in polite company, so he turned to Enjolras.

“I apologize for my friend, he is seeking information to torment me with and believes you to be an inside source.” 

“Tell him I have been unconscious too much of the time to be much help,” Enjolras offered. Grantaire said as much, before speaking to Joly independently. 

“It is probably time for you to leave, Joly, to avoid getting caught in the rain,” Grantaire said. Joly agreed, standing. 

“Make sure he gets water, and perhaps something stronger for the pain. I’d imagine the lack of one and an excess of the other is why he fell outside.” He clasped Grantaire’s shoulder. “Can you help me to the creek? I will make my own way from there. Good day to you, Enjolras.”

Grantaire returned soon enough. He pulled another piece of wood from the pile he kept by the door for another chess piece, as their number had continued to grow. Enjolras had sat back with one leg up on the bed, and only looked up when he heard the sound of the door closing. Grantaire handed him a glass of water, which Enjolras took with a still-shaky hand.

“Joly seemed like a good man.” He said, staring at the rim of the cup.

“He is,” Grantaire agreed. Enjolras scratched the side of the cup with his nail, still not looking at him. 

“I apologize for resisting you calling on him. You are right that it was foolish of me.” Grantaire remained silent. “I worried that any doctor would ask questions, and I-” Enjolras’s voice caught in the dryness of his throat, and he used a sip of water to drown it. “I do not wish to talk of what happened.”

Grantaire thought about what Joly had asked, how Enjolras had taken his shipmates loss. The tense line of the man’s shoulders and his fixed gaze on nothing definitive seemed to give a suitable answer. 

“I won’t disagree that I was right to call on him,” He started, which flashed annoyance across Enjolras’s face like a lightning bolt, “But I understand,” He continued. “It is a complicated feeling, knowing that you could have, perhaps even should have died with your companions, only to be left standing alone and confused.” 

Enjolras did look at him then, with an unreadable look in his eyes. Grantaire remembered the deaths of his father, of his sisters, of being left alone and lost. He wondered if that was what Enjolras felt now.

“I will ask you no more about it, I promise.”


	4. A Paddle For Your Thoughts

“Did it take you long?” Grantaire raised his eyes from the fifth chess piece to look at Enjolras, who had been watching him since he had returned from checking the tower. “To get used to the quiet, I mean.” Grantaire shrugged, avoiding the intensity of Enjolras’s direct attention.

“It was not so difficult, I spent much of my childhood in a convent, it was often quiet.” A confused noise reminded him to clarify. “I worked for them, repainting murals, manuscripts, and the like. I was not studying.” 

“Pity, I’m sure Sister Grantaire would have been an admirable addition to the clergy,” Enjolras said with a humorous twist of his mouth. 

He had been more responsive to banter since Joly’s visit, less guarded though still significantly more serious than Grantaire’s other friends. It was difficult to draw reactions from him other than anger or frustration, which Grantaire could do to anyone. When Enjolras himself made a joke it was very clear how intentional it was, a light of almost childlike excitement and satisfaction in his own good humor glowing in his eyes. Grantaire rewarded the comment with a small laugh, assuming the conversation was then over. It would seem fostering familiarity with Enjolras was a dangerous game, as scarcely a minute passed before he broke the silence and spoke up again.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you pray. Are you a pious man, Grantaire?” 

Grantaire glanced back at him, his whittling ceasing. That was a frightening question to ask so candidly, and Grantaire felt his pulse quicken just from the thought of it. France was not so different as that, so he couldn’t believe Enjolras oblivious. The man’s face revealed only curiosity, leaving Grantaire unsure of how to safely answer. 

“I am not actively practicing.” He said carefully, watching for reaction.

“Why?” Still nothing but general curiosity, which only unnerved him further. He did not appreciate being on the unexpected end of an interrogation, particularly one where he could not decipher the correct answer. 

“I have not seen you pray either,” Grantaire said, hoping to divert attention. 

“I don’t believe humanity should answer to any ruling power,” Enjolras said without hesitation, voice neutral despite the blasphemous subject. It was the most bizarre answer Grantaire had ever heard.

“You would have heaven form a republic?” Grantaire laughed at the strangeness of the concept. “Do they not tell us God is just and kind, why should we take issue with his power?” 

“Are we not supposed to say such things about the king as well? Do both not leave the people to suffer and starve?” 

“I imagine Lucifer spoke similarly. Those words reek of revolution, be careful who you speak them to.” The rulers of this country did not take kindly to those who whispered of independence, and Grantaire did not care to join that bloody history. 

“Why? Would you fear to find how many others would agree?” Grantaire very nearly laughed in his face. What was this strange creature, with his ridiculous ideals and the confidence to challenge even God himself. Grantaire could not imagine believing in his own words to thoroughly.

“You are not the first to question monarchy, but far fewer would be willing to abandon the comfort of God along with it.” Grantaire said. “I don’t imagine you will have much success with either here.”

“I do not believe you disagree with me, despite your impulse to argue otherwise.” 

Grantaire could not explain the phenomena of Enjolras in righteousness. He seemed to grow taller despite being bedridden still, brighter despite no clouds exposing the sun. It is an incredible thing, that a man can be as cold as ice and as bold as fire. He seemed a physical embodiment of his idealism, shining and strong despite the weak, human flaws Grantaire knew lay below. The illusion of it was intoxicating.

“You should be surer of such a thing before you speak.” The wood in his hands bit into his palm as his fingers tightened around it.

“Why do you not pray then? You still have given no answer.” Enjolras stared him down, defiant in his confidence. “I may not have known you long, but you hardly seem the type to believe in anything.”

“You do not know me at all, don’t pretend otherwise.” Grantaire bit out, his hands beginning to shake for some unknown reason. “I am going for a walk.”

“How will you ever win arguments once I can follow? This is becoming a pattern.”

“We can pray that once your feet work they carry you quickly away from here.” Grantaire replied, closing the door loudly behind him. 

His feet carried him towards the beach, a path he hadn’t taken since the arrival of Enjolras. The steps were quick and uneven, putting increasing distance between him and the house. He hoped the waves would at least have a better offering than their last for him to find. Perhaps he was some sort of changeling creature, sent to torment Grantaire in the many multitudes of ways Enjolras was capable.

The walk did not succeed in keeping unwanted thoughts at bay, memories and thoughts that he did his best to avoid flooding up to catch in his throat. It was not often that he chose to think on his probable damnation, despite what much of his creative output may suggest. His artistic education had largely been in studying religious illustrations, so it was not rare for its imagery to feature.

Papa had tried his hardest to instill some faith in Grantaire past the superficial images. He spoke often of the lord’s kind and forgiving nature, which sometimes made Grantaire wonder how much the old man really knew. Despite both he and the sister’s efforts, Grantaire remained disillusioned. It was not their fault, they knew of his natural disposition to doubt but he was fairly certain none of them knew the true reason. It was not easy to trust in words that condemned him from the second he was born, though he carried the guilt with him still.

He had tried to speak of it once, with Bossuet after hearing of his own distance. Even between the two of them, his friend had too had been guarded on the subject. Grantaire had taken long enough to convince himself to even ask, so he was never brave enough to pursue past that first evasion. There was a danger to that line of questioning here. In France at least they held no legal death sentence.

The shore was not as calming as he had hoped, wind having picked up enough to tug the water’s surface into disarray. It also had no alcohol to offer, but that was neither here nor there. A fog was coming in from the horizon, and would likely cover the entire peninsula by the next morning. 

A dull, periodic thudding drew Grantaire’s attention. It was not the usual sounds of water hitting rock or sand, so he pursued it. The sound guided him near where Enjolras had been found, but more into the large, rocky part of the shore than the sheltered sand where Enjolras was washed ashore. He wondered if some pieces of Enjolras’s ship had come ashore. He hoped it was that and not any waterlogged body. He had barely stomached the sight of Enjolras’s loose shoulder, he did not know if he could stand to see much worse.

He thought it odd, actually, that there had been no debris visible as he walked. The ship wouldn’t have been small, and it had run aground close enough to shore that Enjolras could make the swim it would make sense for some pieces to follow the current the same way. He did not think the swells of the past week strong enough to wash it all away so quickly. 

“Now, this is a wonder.” Not only had Grantaire been right about the debris, but he had apparently underestimated it, as what he now gazed down on was an entire boat. 

That was an overstatement, Grantaire would admit. It was small, likely the type that would be aboard a larger vessel to take people to shore should they land somewhere without a harbor or if the ship was sinking. It was in fairly good condition as well, despite the damage it had sustained being wedged into the rocks like it was.

Grantaire removed his shoes and waded into the water so he could take the boat higher on the shore. There were no oars in sight, likely pulled away by the waves. The water was cold, so he hurried the process until the boat was clear of the waterline. 

As he looked it over, deliberated what it might mean. Surely, if a boat this in tact had made it here, a person could have too? Enjolras had stated that he swam, never mentioning any small boat, yet he had seen no bodies nor had anyone made their way to the tower. 

He knew that he was overthinking it’s presence. The boat could have very easily just been swept here by the water and gotten stuck unlike the rest of the debris. It did not need a person guiding it to make the journey. Enjolras certainly could not have rowed himself all the way from Paris. But still, Granataire thought as he traced the side of the boat that shared a similar shape with the mark on Enjolras’s side, it was not entirely ridiculous to question. 

There was little to no proof to aid his speculation. Enjolras had said he had wounded himself hitting the side of a boat before going over the edge, but he had explained it as the main ship in his story. His arm was an injury that could easily happen from an oar getting caught or ripped from his grip unexpectedly. Perhaps these were all things Enjolras would clarify when the illness had fully cleared from his mind. 

He was looking for excuses, a voice in his mind said. A reason to distrust Enjolras, to get him out of Grantaire’s space and life so he would not have to face these sort of disruptions any longer. There was no proof the boat had any tie to the ship Enjolras took, it could have strayed from one of the towns farther north, and simply been lucky enough to avoid much damage. 

Grantaire was overwhelmed, not sure which conclusion to come to. He left the boat where the water would not reach it and made his way back to the house, confused and unsure which of the many voices in his head he should believe. They all merged into a sort of loud silence, a blankness leaving Grantaire without a decision in any direction. 

“You’re back.” Enjolras greeted him 

“I am.” A moment of silence followed. 

“Perhaps I should apologize,” Enjolras spoke again. “Not everyone is comfortable thinking past what they were raised by.” He wanted to laugh, just a bit, at the thinly veiled critique. 

“Is that you apologizing?” He asked. “And that has nothing to do with it.”

“Will you tell me what it does have to do with? I was just trying to make conversation.” 

“You expressed an interest on not being questioned about the shipwreck, I would ask the same courtesy in this.” Grantaire said. Enjolras’s immediate silence did not help his suspicions, but Grantaire had come to a conclusion. The arm, the boat, Enjolras's story, Grantaire had no knowledge of what would come if he tried to discover why those details did not fit together. He had no interest in doing so either. He would try to forget, leave it unasked. Every man had his secrets, perhaps they were better unpursued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is short, I really wasn't sure what I wanted to happen so I jumped into some events earlier than planned


	5. Satirical Standings

Grantaire’s greatest relief was when Enjolras regained the ability to walk. His ankle still troubled him, a limp evident, but his weakness had passed so that his legs could support the weight for short periods of time at least. Enjolras had often been made upset in each failed attempt, leaving Grantaire to face the brunt of his frustrations. He could not bring himself to resent those times now, as the slowly rebuilding strength now spared them both the embarrassment of Grantaire having to assist Enjolras relieving himself.

Grantaire could easily see what difference the autonomy made in Enjolras’s attitude, so much so that he felt that his guest had been taken away and replaced with a much quieter and more polite version of himself. Whenever he did stumble or fall the irritability quickly returned, but with his new movement Enjolras now has the capability to entertain himself.

With Enjolras occupied, Grantaire was forced to suffer through far fewer questions. The discussion of religion had not ended well, and Grantaire was much relieved to avoid any subject like it. The questions still came, though less frequently invasive in manner.

Grantaire’s confusing discovery of the small boat also contributed to his end of the silence. The questions he didn’t ask sometimes seeming they would burst from his lips unbidden, so it seemed safer to simply keep his mouth closed. To say it simply, their days had grown much quieter.

Grantaire had strategically placed a chair in the middle of the room, forming a midway resting point for whatever Enjolras was trying to reach. Enjolras had not asked for it, and he eyed the attempt at helping spitefully, but he did make use of it. Grantaire was still unused to having a guest that could move from that one corner of the room, so when a voice spoke close behind him he was startled.

“You have a great many books.”

“Yes, though not many are in French. You may find my makeshift library lacking.” He said as Enjolras came into view beside him. He worried, somewhat, about what argument this conversation might bring. He hoped their peaceful silence would return soon.

“I read a little English, though I do not speak it.” He picked up one of the titles. “ _Paradise Lost _, I recognize this name.”

“That one would be to your liking,” Grantaire said, remembering Enjolras’s baffling views on religion, “Though I would not recommend it for someone not well versed in English.”

Enjolras nodded, putting the book back. He continued to look through them as Grantaire continued the organizing he had been in the midst of. When he picked up one of the books, Enjolras made an excited noise and gestured for it with his good hand. Grantaire passed it over.

“Voltaire? You surprise me.” He turned it and read the title. “Ah, _Candide_, I rescind my surprise.”

“I take it you have some issue?” Grantaire said, blowing hot air in some semblance of a laugh.

“I have never appreciated satire, if one has something to say why not say it directly.”

“What creature among men says his thoughts directly,” he exchanged a look with his companion, “I forgot with whom I was speaking, forgive me.”

Enjolras continued to watch him, expecting some response. Grantaire was reluctant, but eventually he offered it nonetheless.

“The world is a dark and wicked place, sometimes it is better to laugh at that, rather than to cry.”

“You’re a bitter man.”

“That is because I have lived.” Grantaire said, finishing the quotation as he took the book back from Enjolras. “Did you mean to quote it?”

“Perhaps I did, perhaps I did not. I will never directly tell you.” He looked at the cover in Grantaire’s hands, well worn and small enough to pocket. “Did you bring that from when you lived in France?”

“Yes, it is long been a favorite of mine. I did not bring much with me but this I took care to take before leaving.”

“Have you read more of Voltaire’s works?” Grantaire nodded, earning an unexpected smile. “Care to debate some of his principles?” He asked, as if he had stepped into the role of a professor holding class. Grantaire chose to let the odd wording pass.

“That depends entirely,” He said, “On if you expect me to agree with you.”

“I expect you to be a frustratingly contrary as possible,” Enjolras answered, “Disagreement often makes an argument stronger, I could use the nuance.”

“Unless, of course, my argument is better.” Grantaire said, enjoying Enjolras’s attempts at witty humor.

“Perish the thought.”

He switched sides of his argument sporadically, watching Enjolras run in circles to justify his opinions. It was entertaining, and Enjolras held up to it well. There was some indignation at first, then confusion after the first switch Grantaire made, and finally understanding paired with what Enjolras called “a considerable interest in hitting him.”

Grantaire realized, sometime later and long into their debate, that this was the longest conversation they had held without devolving into argument. Their were debating, certainly, Grantaire would never give Enjolras the satisfaction of agreeing with him, but he had yet to run and drink. It was certainly a change.

It was going dark, Grantaire noticed. He had not looked away from Enjolras long enough in the entirety of the conversation to realize. It had only been when Grantaire reached for something that he noticed how dim the room had gotten. They had spent much of the day talking, and Grantaire wasn’t all that sure he minded.

“I must apologize for interrupting your consistently weakening argument,” He said, which Enjolras greeted with a raised brow, “But I have to make sure the chickens are fed.” Enjolras blinked in surprise.

“Now that is the most bizarre excuse you’ve given to escape yet.” Grantaire stared at him in confusion, causing Enjolras’s mirth to fade into bewilderment. “You actually do have chickens to feed?”

“You have been in this house over a week, and you did not know there were chickens?” Enjolras’s shoulders rose defensively.

“I have only been outside for a few minutes at a time, forgive me for not watching closely.” He glared at Grantaire, though without his usual severity. “Stop your laughing.” Grantaire could not.

“But surely you heard them?” He could hear them even now, if faintly. They lived only just behind the house, and were likely impatient to be fed.

“The sailors mentioned a different sort of sea bird here, I did not think to question it.” He too, was smiling now.

“I see that schoolboy education is serving you well. Would you believe me if I told you we feed Irish chickens only the finest meats?”

“When the chickens grow teeth.” Grantaire could not help but smile nostalgically, having not heard that saying since his departure from France. "Go feed your birds, if they do exist."

Grantaire left the room laughing still from the exchange. He made his way around the house quickly, reaching the chicken coup in little time. Swift and Wren, both as ironically named as they sounded, loudly heralded his arrival. He wondered if they would be audible enough for Enjolras to notice them now.

The feed offered distraction as Grantaire searched the nests for eggs. The food in his house depleted much faster with more than one tennant, and as they had nothing to offer he would likely have to make his way in to town earlier than his usual rotation.

The chickens had no interest in him past the food he put on the ground, so he did not stay with them long. He went instead to stand by the tower, watching the clouds move over the dark water. The moon was just visible enough to give the surface a milky stain, though Grantaire could not see clearly enough to find any stars.

With birds fed and weather examined, he made his way back around to the door. He had been sleeping in the watch room, since he had given Enjolras the bed, but did not feel the need to go there yet. It was far warmer in the house, and if Enjolras was not on his way to sleep he would gladly continue conversation.

Enjolras made quite a sight when Grantaire returned. He was curled up at well as his leg and arm would permit, one hand holding open _Candide_ as he skimmed it. Grantaire stopped at the door to watch as the candle Enjolras must have lit illuminated him with a soft, warm glow. It was a very different Enjoras to the one he had seen previously, that marble man who spoke of heresy like it was its own dogma.

“May I suggest you read something that will anger you less?” Grantaire said, watching Enjolras’s brow furrow at some part of the passage he’d reached. The words startled Enjolras enough to drop the book he had been struggling to flip through with one hand.

“I believe there is a quote in here to the same effect, though I find things that anger us often deserve the most attention.” Grantaire did not bother to begin to dispute that logic.

The book, in its fall, had released a loose leaf of paper from its pages. It drew both men’s attention away from their conversation with its release. Grantaire easily recognized it as one of Cosette’s letters, evident from drawing of her he had done on the back of it. He often used his books to store those sorts of pages, as they often came together and it was their best hope for remaining dry and organized. Before he could move to take it, Enjolras picked it up.

“Who is this?” He said, looking at the drawing. He turned it over to the letter side as well. “She calls you thou, so you are close then?” It would seem the questions had returned.

“She is no long lost love, if that is what you are expecting.” Grantaire asked, feeling the discomfort from their earlier arguments return. He reached for the letter and Enjolras handed it to him.

“What is she, then?” Enjolras asked, likely not expecting as complicated an answer as Grantaire had.

He often did not know what to call Cosette, as sister never felt right on his tongue. He had sisters, once. Two of them, though he remembered little more than their faces. He and Cosette had no blood relation, and did not spend much of their childhood together. She had been in schooling, and the brief time they travelled together before Grantaire left them had not fostered much closeness, despite Cosette’s dedication to writing him and acting as if they had.

It was in her nature, Grantaire knew. Cosette was a warm and loving person, who easily had called him brother and welcomed him. Perhaps that was because the mismatched, found collection of people they were was the only family she remembered. He sometimes wondered, if she was capable of resentment, if would she hate him for knowing a family before them.

“She is a relation of mine. Family.” The word fit as well as it could, so Grantaire used it. He could see Enjolras wanted to ask more, but for once refrained and simply nodded. After a moment, he spoke of something different.

“You know,” He said, “I feel we have re-met today.” It was a suitable enough way to word it, Grantaire thought. He had certainly changed much of his view of his companion in the few short hours.

“As do I.” Grantaire smiled. “I’m not sure who was in my home until today, but I am glad to meet Enjolras.” They shared a smile.

“And I am glad to meet Grantaire.” Enjolras’s humorous glint returned. “Apparently he keeps chickens.”

“Oh? And does my new guest have a sense of humor? What a welcome change.” Enjolras waved him off, picking up the candle to extinguish it.

“Humour? I am unfamiliar with the concept. Perhaps you have some reading you could recommend?” He nodded to _Candide_, which still sat on the bed.

“I do, and it is sure to send you right to sleep.”

“Then I welcome it.” He inclined his head. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

Grantaire, feeling a strange lightness at the sound of his name, responded in kind.

“Goodnight, Enjolras. I will see you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be unclear, so I'll say here the "thou" conversation is relating to the french translation of formal and informal addresses. I'm fairly certain thou was not often used in english at this time, but my translation of les mis used thou vs you in the conversation between marius and eponine. I tried to similarly reference it here.


	6. The Knight and his Mare

One of Grantaire’s most treasured possessions was something he had stumbled on rather accidentally. It was sometime in his first couple months in Ireland. He always had a knack for languages, but his english skills were still not at their best. He had stopped in the little booksellers shop hoping to find something to aid him in that venture. 

The store was nearly empty when he entered, only a young woman and her chaperone browsing some of the back shelves. He avoided them as well as he could in the small space, hopeful that he could avoid starting any conversation he could not understand. Luckily they had been engaged amongst themselves. 

“Well, isn’t this a curious thing. Look at these pictures Saoirse, they seem so dark and mysterious. This one reminds me of that novel I read last year, The Mysteries of Udolpho. Oh, that story nearly sent me off in a fright, but I could hardly put it down.” The young woman’s voice carried to Grantaire, who could decipher the majority of it. 

“You and your tastes, child. Why not reread 'Emma' by that anonymous writer, I quite liked that one.” 

“Yes, but I already know how that one ends.”

The women continued speaking as they moved along, but Grantaire’s interest had been caught enough to seek out what had started the conversation. He moved into the space they had previously occupied and searched the shelves for whatever had been the source of the interesting images. 

It was not easy to find due to its unassuming appearance, in fair consideration it was less of a book and more of a collection. He doubted it was ever really published, it seemed more likely that someone had removed the images from their other homes and bound them together on their own. The pages in between seemed to be handwritten. Grantaire wondered what sould had spent the time on this only for his hard work to somehow fall into the hands of someone seeking to get rid of it. 

What the book, if one chose to call it that, actually comprised of was a collection of prints by the Spanish artist Francisco Goya. Grantaire had no previous knowledge of the man, and had first opened it due to only a casual curiosity. He hadn’t expected all that much, but Grantaire’s life was quite affected by the discovery. His parameters for what art meant were irrevocably changed. He spent weeks making studies and doing research whenever they paused long enough. His works were dark and grotesque, but captivated Grantaire in a way that manuscript illumination never had. 

Though Grantaire had long lost the artistic fanaticism, he still thought of the prints in that book often. He often felt like he lived in the world of print himself, colorless and grey, frozen at a point he would never leave. But it was one print specifically that he thought in this instance. It was named ‘The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters,’ or so the work seemed to be captioned. 

The picture showed a sleeping man plagued by animals that ranged from natural to demonic. The author’s writings talked about the aftereffects of the french philosophers, but Grantaire often ignored the political nuance. He had his own meaning for it, about the treacheries of the mind when there was no waking reason to control it. 

Grantaire thought of that picture now, after he had come in from the lighthouse a few days after their discussion on Candide to find Enjolras in the throws of a nightmare. He seemed as if he too was being harassed by invisible beasts, though far less peacefully than the man of the print. He thrashed about as if he was fighting them off, or perhaps running from them, Grantaire could not be sure. The movements jostled his arm and he cried out in pain, though it did not seem to wake him.

Grantaire, motivated to action, hurried over. He attempted to wake Enjolras, though the man did not seem aware of his presence. He said words, names perhaps, as he struggled. He heard mumbles of some Parisian places that he did recognize, Notre Dame, Rue de Bac, and St. Antoine among others. Grantaire could not be sure what any of them meant, and he did not have the time to focus on them as he attempted to pull Enjolras from his dreams. 

“I- I must jump. Where is, where are they? I need to-”

“Enjolras, Enjolras it is alright.” Calling out seemed to have no effect. The talking continued, slurred and disordered. 

“Citizens - my friends, I am sorry, I must jump-”

Enjolras sat up with such suddenness that they nearly collided. He was breathing roughly, and for a few moments Grantaire feared the dream had not yet released him. It was not until his eyes met his, clear and wide, that Grantaire knew him to be awake. Enjolras said his name before collapsing in to his chest. 

Grantaire caught Enjolras, more than embraced him. It was a strange position they took. Enjolras was the taller of the two, but he had bent to press his head into Grantaire’s sternum, tickling his chin with golden curls. His good hand had a tight grip on the front of Grantaire’s shirt, as if Grantaire himself had the power to pull him back into the waking world. 

Neither of them spoke. Enjolras was shaking violently still, but had shed no tears. The ragged breaths that tore from Enjolras’s throat were all that filled the silence between them. Grantaire, unsure of this sudden vulnerability, did nothing. His hands hung limp, his eyes stared ahead.

Slowly the shaking lessened, though Grantaire knew he had no part in its calming. Only a few days before they had been incapable of holding a conversation, Grantaire did not know what comfort he was expected to give. Once he felt Enjolras’s grip lessen, he made his escape the few inches away that the cot allowed. 

“I apologize,” Enjolras said breathlessly. “I know you do not enjoy being touched.” 

“You should not apologize,” Grantaire returned. “Has this been happening often?” Enjolras did not answer him. 

“Did you feel like you abandoned your country, when you left France?” He asked instead. The question was unexpected, but perhaps should not have been, given Grantaire’s previous interactions with an upset Enjolras. It was nearing a predictable routine, though for this question Grantaire did not even have an answer he was unwilling to say. He had never thought of it before, and had to think on a reponse. 

“I was sad, yes," He said finally, "But did I really abandon something if I could do nothing for it?” 

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” Enjolras said, the latin rolling easily off his tongue. “You say you can do nothing for your country. You can die, can’t you?” Grantaire did his best not to take offense.

“I don’t think I understand you.” He said. 

“No,” Enjolras’s words were soaked with bitterness. “No, I don’t imagine you do.” 

Grantaire was confused by the words, but it was clear he was still being insulted. Still, Grantaire contained his retaliation. He may have been unsure how to comfort, but it took no scholar to understand an argument would not likely offer help. He would avoid Enjolras's bait.

“Would you care to explain?” He said instead. 

“There is blood on my hands, you know.” Enjolras continued, ignoring him. “They all died, I was helpless to stop it.”

“In the shipwreck?” Grantaire asked, carelessly, curiously, the little boat hovered in his mind. Enjolras closed his eyes. 

“Yes, in the shipwreck.” He said the word as if it was poison that he needed to spit from his mouth. “It is my fault.”

“It is not.” He said. The anger in Enjolras’s face swelled, contorting it like one of Goya’s monsters. 

“What could you possibly know of the situation I am in?”

“Enough.” Grantaire cut Enjolras off before he could respond. “Did you kill them with your own hands?”

“What?”

“Did you, with your own person, take their lives? Did you hold them under the waves, hang them with ship ropes?” Horror replaced some of the anger that he could see in Enjolras. 

“Of course not, what a thing to even suggest-”

“Then you did not kill them.” Grantaire said. “There is something I learned, after watching my father and sisters die from an illness I was the first to bring in to the house. I can blame myself, say I killed them and spend years torturing myself for that. But to what end? Will laying the blame on myself for surviving bring them back?”

It had not been an easy lesson to learn. Papa had been instrumental in Grantaire ever moving on. He had been vague, but he had told the story of a sister and her children who he had failed to take care of. Grantaire had hardly listened then, despite Cosette’s jealousy that he was told some of Papa’s past at all, but as he aged Grantaire had finally come to some understanding. He had many sins worth judging, but that was not one of them. 

Enjolras handled the concept better than the young Grantaire had. He stared, still a mix of confusion, anger and sadness, but he did not storm off. Nor did Grantaire imagine he would be luring any young convent girls to sneak out with him to the tavern and drink his cares away.

“Our situations are different.” Enjolras protested, voice weak where it was before malicious. “You did not intend to get sick.”

“And did you intend to sink?” He got no answer. 

Grantaire did move to leave, when the silence stretched on too long. He did not enjoy waiting for a reaction. He stood, offering no explanation, but was halted by a grip on his sleeve. Enjolras still did not speak, did not ask for help, but Grantaire returned to where he had sat before. 

“Show me what you are always doing with your hands.” He said. “You are always carving something. Can you show it to me?” 

“I’m making chess pieces, I am nearly done with the set,” Grantaire said, though he had only realized it now. “I started with this knight.” He withdrew it from the small bag where he had been putting the finished pieces.

“Tell me,” Enjolras said, reaching out to cup the hand Grantaire held the piece in, rather than the piece itself. “What does this knight fight for?” 

“Whatever the player chooses, I suppose.” Grantaire said, in lieu of a more dangerous answer. Enjolras did not take his eyes of the little carved face and the shield it held. 

“When you finish, we should play a game.” He gave Grantaire a small smile. “He seems like a fellow whose loyalty is good to have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's chess pieces are based slightly off the Lewis chessmen, though the knights look more like that set's rooks. I also drew inspiration from random google images of wooden chess pieces like this one  
https://www.123rf.com/photo_1518718_wooden-carved-chess-pieces.html


	7. Echoes of Another Life

A storm that lasted the greater part of three days took up most of Grantaire’s time following Enjolras’s nightmare. Grantaire welcomed the distraction, as he did not yet trust himself to handle any more of the closeness he had experienced with Enjolras that night. 

It was simple familiarity, he would not delude himself otherwise. Most men had to issue embracing and touching their fellows. Grantaire was more singular in his self-imposed confinement, always fearing to share in those platonic intimacies for fear of them somehow revealing him. Enjolras was signifying friendship, or something close to it, and nothing more.

Enjolras knew something was amiss, Grantaire was not very successful in hiding it. He had tried to encourage conversation one of the times Grantaire came down from the tower for food, but Grantaire had avoided engaging and insisted he was worried about the wind and had to return. Enjolras eventually stopped trying after his two following attempts failed as well. 

Grantaire could not explain to him what was wrong, partly because he was not sure himself. He had been made aware of something that night, though he was incapable of putting to words exactly what it was. It was more the possibility of something rather than anything concrete, which he found all the more dangerous. Grantaire pretended that if he did not face the cause he would not have to face it at all. 

The storm excuse ran thin eventually, the sky clearing but his chosen exile not. By the end of five days, he had still not spoken to Enjolras past polite greetings, instead hiding on the widow’s walk, the wood for the second to last chess piece sitting unworked on in his hands. The tide was out, exposing a damp floor of sand and stone.

He did return to the house as the sky remained frustratingly clear. It was the early morning of a new day, and Enjolras was already awake. He was reading through another one of Grantaire’s books, The Hermit by Oliver Goldsmith, lips silently sounding out words he knew no meaning behind. He took notice of Grantaire’s entrance. 

“Have the skies finally released you from your obligations?” He asked. 

“They have convinced me of the storms passing, yes.” Enjolras nodded to himself, closing the poem. 

“Good. We are going to town.” Enjolras’s words always seemed to command, but his tone in this brokered no argument. 

“I’m sorry?” Grantaire asked, confused by this direction of action. 

“You told me that when your food stores get low, you go in to town to restock. They are low, and you have just told me the weather is good. Do you have any viable protest?” Grantaire was still struck still with surprise at the entire exchange.

“What of your leg?” It was the best argument he could think of.

“Your friend Joly made the trek, surely I can as well.” He stood then, a hand pulling on the corner of the nightshirt. “My only issue is clothing, I doubt showing up with a half dressed companion will serve your reputation well.” Grantaire’s cheeks reddened, and he looked away. 

“I have no waistcoat or cravat to offer you.”

“My own waistcoat is not completely destroyed. As for a cravat, I must go without. I don’t care to search the waves for wherever it went.”

“I have a shirt and overcoat you may use. You are taller, but I am wider so perhaps it will even out well enough to wear. “ Grantaire, by some will other than his own, went to fetch these things. 

He could think of no good protest, not when Enjolras got himself dressed, nor when their journey started. Enjolras walked confidently, despite his limp, and made continuous conversation. This was his punishment for hiding, then, to be dragged out of his home and talked to death. 

Enjolras fell silent and stopped unexpectedly. Grantaire caught himself mid step to stop from advancing too far ahead of him. He turned, to see if Enjolras’s ankle was plaguing him or if he needed assistance, but he seemed engaged by the sight in front of them. 

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

They were stopped not halfway, the town not yet visible and the tower behind them. They were surrounded by the expanse of the low brush, which was just now beginning to dot with purple. The colors were illuminated by the sun, visible through the grandiose clouds which were quickly ushered away by the breeze. They mounted like castles in the sky, though luckily castles that would rain their hellfire on other lands today. 

A salty wind sang its quiet tune through the grass as they both stood, Enjolras transfixed and Grantaire melancholy. He took a moment to try and see it himself, with new eyes. He closed them then, letting the wind dance across his cheeks. 

“I suppose it is.” He said, turning to Enjolras. His companion hummed happily before regaining motion. 

They came again by the house of Mrs. Millea. She likely saw their approach from her window, as she came to the doorway just as they passed it. She gave them both a measuring look, before calling out to Grantaire. 

“Who is that you come with, Grantaire?” She eyed Enjolras’s mismatched clothes. “What strange creature did you foolishly bring in from the tides?” 

“The worst creature of all,” He replied. “A Frenchman.”

Mrs. Millea’s expression did not lessen in its sourness. She vanished from sight, likely to lurk until another passerby came that she could question. Grantaire waited until they were well past before addressing Enjolras’s questioning look. 

“What was she saying? That did not sound like English.”

“Mrs. Millea was speaking gaelic. Most of the younger townspeople use English or both, but she knows I understand her.” He continued. “She takes her stories rather literally, I would not be surprised if she spread rumours that I was housing a selkie or some other strange thing.” 

He had meant the comment to be teasing, but Enjolras only seemed discomforted. Grantaire let the subject drop. Yet another question he would choose not to ask. 

When they reached Main Street, a call of both their names pulled their attention. Joly was just leaving a house on the far end, and had spotted them easily. Enjolras’s displeasure vanished, and he and Joly greeted each other as well as the language barrier allowed. 

“I am glad to see you on your feet, Enjolras.” Grantaire translated for him.

“I am glad to be on them.” Joly smiled, turning to Grantaire singularly. 

“You’ve come for food, no doubt. Care to uphold the tradition and come by the Corinthe? Bossuet will return soon and the skies look clear.” Grantaire looked to Enjolras, still awaiting translation, before answering. 

“We can spare some time, I could use a drink.” Joly gave a small cheer of success. “We may yet leave before nightfall, I leave that for the next hours to decide.” 

He explained their change of direction to Enjolras as they walked. Instead of angering him, like Grantaire had both hoped and feared it would, Enjolras seemed excited. He said he wanted to meet Grantaire’s friends, as he had liked Joly well enough. Grantaire was not so sure.

“Grantaire!” Bossuet greeted jovially, knocking aside a glass when his arms moved with the exclamation. 

“It is good to see you.” Musichetta said, catching the falling cup with deft hands, leaving barely anything to wipe away. “I see you’ve brought a friend. Is it the same, Joly? Or does Grantaire have a secret hoard of compatriots hidden away.” 

“He is the same,” Joly gestured for them both to join Bossuet at the table. “Introduce us around, Grantaire.” 

“Enjolras, Joly you’ve met. These are my other friends Bossuet and Musichetta. She owns this establishment.” 

Enjolras greeted them politely in turn, and Grantaire settled into the passive role of translator. It was enjoyable enough, watching the exchange. No one seemed to notice that he had nothing to say with how much he had to speak for each side. He was fine with that, still not in the mood for any interaction of his own. 

The conversation consisted mainly of pleasantries, which was as much as Grantaire had expected. He could not think of what these figures had in common to discuss. They got along well enough, but the only real connection there seemed to be was when Enjolras mentioned having a friend who also wanted to be a doctor, though the conversation quickly fizzled out when Enjolras had nothing more to say of him. 

The conversation would have continued at that rate into a slow death, Grantaire had no doubt, had Joly not brought politics into play. At the mere mention Grantaire had groaned and Musichetta had left, swearing to him to retrieve more drinks. Enjolras’s curiosity had been piqued. 

“It’s true,” He said to Grantaire’s doubts. “Nearly 200,000 gathered at Baile Héil. The Reverend spoke of it when I came to examine his knees. He had a friend write to him, they were addressed by Daniel O'Connell.” Grantaire was forced to put more effort into his translation, making it an explanation as well.

“There was a gathering in Ballyhale, far south of here. People have been unhappy due to some tithe issues, I will not pretend to understand the nuance of it. Last year there was an organized attack against a constabulary as response to deaths caused in the protesting.” He gestured to his friends. “Joly and Bossuet would likely have joined it, if they could. They have taken no lesson from the well meaning fools who did that are now being charged. A gathering, regardless of size, won’t save them.” 

“I do not need to understand you to know you are belittling a tragedy.” Bossuet said. “You can’t think every attempt to change things is hopeless.”

“Can’t I? I may not have seen the world, but I feel I’ve seen enough to know impoverished misery is man’s true constant.”

“Why should they not gather?” Enjolras cut in, drawing Grantaire’s attention. “There is power in a people that strong.”

“This is no storming of the Bastille, Enjolras.” Grantaire said. 

“Their numbers were smaller.” Countered Enjolras. “They have an opportunity. You say they are being treated unjustly, then they have the right to resist it.”

“Grantaire, what is he saying?” Joly asked, reminding Grantaire that Enjolras not speaking to him alone. 

“Let them advance the unity of the people, the dream of the fair. They have a right to nothing less than equality, and nothing more than freedom.” Enjolras’s eyes glinted, hard as steel in the candlelight. “What is left now is to simply reach for it. Reach for the brighter future I know lays before us. ” 

For all that Enjolras had said of kings and rulers, he certainly spoke like one. His words were a command, one that seemed so powerful that the world itself would change its shape if he told it to. Grantaire felt an overwhelming urge to be the one that changed it for him and he saw his friends equally transfixed. Grantaire also had an urge to run as far away as he could from whatever strange power Enjolras held. Instead, he reached for a bottle. 

A fuse had been lit in Enjolras, sparking a fire Grantaire had only seen the simmering embers of before. He was suited better to an audience of thousands, rather than a pub deserted save for their four. At some point, Grantaire realized he had long forgotten his role as translator. It didn’t matter, as simply the way he spoke had captivated his friends. They stared in awe at this god among men, this ethereal vision that spoke words that would have sounded ridiculous coming from any other mouth. 

He sounded mad, if anyone would take care to listen to his words. The more wine Grantaire swallowed, the more he heard. Enjolras said ridiculous things. He suggested an international parliament, ruling over all of Europe, and a school for all to teach the principles of equality. Most ridiculous of all, he spoke of an end to all conflict, an end to poverty, famine, prostitution and all other plagues of man. His idealism strayed into fanaticism, and from there into insanity. 

“We must rise,” He still continued. “This is the hour of fate. Let out a call, and the people will rise with you. They will-” 

Enjolras faltered, his words failing as he seemed to return to himself. With this break, the illusion was shattered for both they and him. Enjolras blinked, disoriented as if in his words he had been transported to that future he spoke of only to be thrust back into the present. 

“I- I am sorry.” He said, looking down from where he had at some point in his fervor moved to stand. “I do not know what I’m saying, you would do better not to listen.” He returned to his seat, quiet and unresponsive to the exclamations of their companions. 

“Grantaire, ask him what is wrong? What happened?” Grantaire, now thoroughly drunk, barely heeded whoever had asked. His eyes did not stray from Enjolras. 

“Has Lady Liberty stopped whispering in your ear, O fearless champion of the truth? Come, Apollo, finish your song. Your chorus waits.” Enjolras raised his head then, confused at the half attempted allusions that would be nonsensical in any language. “Enjolras has changed his mind.” He said then, to answer his friends. 

“Is that all?” Musichetta asked. “Grantaire, he surely gave some reason for the sudden stop.”

“I think it is time for me to return home.” Grantaire said, though he was not sure which language it came out in. He stood to leave, but misjudged the momentum and found himself gazing at the ceiling. Concerned faces quickly appeared above him. 

“What is wrong with him, is he alright?” Enjolras asked, despite no one being able to answer him. Grantaire giggled at the thought of it. 

“I was not watching how much he drank.” Musichetta said. “He must have downed the entirety while Enjolras spoke.” 

“Grantaire,” Speak of the devil, it would seem, and he would speak back. “Grantaire I do not know what anyone is saying. Are you hurt.” Enjolras’s good hand moved to check Grantaire’s temperature. He swatted it away.

“They are trying to tell you my bouts of melancholy are an affliction to be ignored.” He said. “Leave me to sleep here, it will be gone by morning.” Bossuet, the largest of the lot, easily picked Grantaire off the ground despite his protests. “I can walk myself.” Bossuet did not let him down. 

Joly attempted to explain to Enjolras that they were putting Grantaire to bed as they followed, though Grantaire had been right in guessing Joly knew no words fit for gentlemanly conversation. The sentence he did construct was lewd enough to earn a laugh from Grantaire, even in his state of despondency. Enjolras simply looked scandalized. 

“We leave him here to sleep it off.” Bossuet tried to both say and mime after they had deposited Grantaire in one of the guest rooms. Enjolras only stared at him blankly. 

“Just leave him here,” Musichetta said, watching him. “We know what happens when Grantaire falls in to one of these moods, Enjolras will follow us soon enough.” "Do you want a chair?" Bossuet inquired slowly. Enjolras's face grew only more confused, and Grantaire laughed to himself again.

"He thinks you mean to offer him meat." Bossuet gave him a look.

"If only we had a translator who could aid my attempts." He said with a raised eyebrow. To Enjolras, he rather helplessly tried to make an apologetic gesture before leaving the room. 

Musichetta left too, pushing a candle into his hands before closing the door. Enjolras watched, still confused, before turning to Grantaire’s place in the room. He did not wait long before making his way to the bed and sitting at Grantaire’s feet. Enjolras watched him steadily in the silence until Grantaire released a loud sigh of exasperation.

“Ask your question.” Grantaire said. “I know you have one.” Enjolras continued to watch him, letting them both sit in the uncomfortable silence of it.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Grantaire sighed loudly, turning to his side. 

“I got drunk, Enjolras. Surely you have heard of it.”

“I have, but what I do not understand is why.”

“I needed a potion to understand the spell you were casting with your nonsensical words.” His head rolled to look down himself at Enjolras. “Are you a witch? Mrs. Millea will be terribly smug if you are.” He spoke again just as Enjolras tried to respond. “You can not honestly tell me you believe in those things you spoke of.”

“I do.” Enjolras answered immediately. Grantaire watched the resolve of his expression lessen. “I did. I think I do.”

“I would expect more eloquence from a fool as well studied as you.” Enjolras’s brow pinched. 

“You make a cruel drunk.” He said. 

“And you make a fiery leader. Pity you have no one to lead.” He smiled bitterly. “Not every man can be Robespierre, Enjolras. The world is only fit to change so many times.”

“I find myself incapable of believing that.” Enjolras said. Grantaire laughed, causing Enjolras’s expression to darken. “I would ask not to be laughed at.” 

“Why?” Grantaire asked, sitting up to face him. “Why? Do you need my approval? My belief? We are strangers Enjolras, you should need to validation from me.” 

“That may be what you have acted as the past five days, but we are not strangers." Enjolras spoke firmly. "Why are you behaving this way? Did I say something that offended? I was unkind to you after my dream, I know that, but you seemed to understand.” He looked almost wretched in his upset, though that could easily have been a trick of the low light.

“You did nothing. It is my own fault.” Grantaire said, wanting to ease the distress from Enjolras’s face. He had caused it, he knew, but instead of satisfaction in that moment he felt only regret. He reached forward, as if to smooth the lines from Enjolras's face with his own hand.

The distance between where they both sat on the bed was not far. He could see the candle reflected in Enjolras’s eyes, and watched how the shadows shaped his face. Several strings of hair had come loose from where Enjolras tied them back, slipping out of those confines to freedom. In the last moments, Grantaire's hand changed direction for one of those curls, sliding it through his fingers before placing it gently behind Enjolras's ear.

“You are beautiful.” He said quietly, reverently, leaving the words to hang in the air between them. 

He was answered with silence. They stared at each other in the candlelight, Grantaire himself moments from slipping into sleep. Silence was all Grantaire had hoped to expect. It is all he could have expected, as he had said the words in no tongue Enjolras could understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can not do Enjolras's speeches any justice, so I hope you suffered through my weak abbreviations. I will come back and edit this later, though there is no promise it will improve.  
Also, no disrespect meant to any of the Irish rebellion movements or the victims of the Tithe War. Grantaire is cynical and angry, which does not always make him right.


	8. Illumination

Though Grantaire was practiced in the act, waking with a hangover was never a pleasant experience. He was assaulted my the morning light from the moment he opened his eyes, and therefore took some time to adjust as he deliberated the events of the night before. 

If Grantaire had ever been both blessed and cursed with something, it was his incredibly high tolerance of alcohol when it came to memory loss. If Grantaire was to black out, he likely would not be waking until judgement day. He therefore remembered Enjolras’s speech, his friends’ awe, and his own shameful behavior. Tá tú go hálainn. 

He had set himself up for failure the day before. There was so little opportunity to go wrong, so he had gone and turned the day sour himself. He had been confused and angry with himself for that emotion, so he had taken it out on the people around him, particularly Enjolras who did not know well enough to avoid him.

Grantaire gazed to the side of the bed where Enjolras had slept. The floor could not be comfortable with his arm, but Grantaire had spent the last few weeks sleeping on a cold floor to give Enjolras the bed, so perhaps it was fair trade. He thought to his last words before going to sleep, and wondered if Enjolras would have stayed so close if he knew their meaning. Tá tú go hálainn, words with a weight Grantaire never expected to give them.

He had not been blind to Enjolras’s beauty, that had been glowingly obvious since the day he was found. Grantaire had treated it akin to a grand artwork, something he could admire but never touch or possess. He had been comfortable keeping that distance, stepping away from the canvas that was Enjolras’s delicate features and soft curls. When Enjolras had reached for him, that morning with the nightmare, Grantaire had not known how to react. He had pulled in on himself, backing away until a liquor loosened tongue had forced him to face why. 

Tá tú go hálainn. You are beautiful. 

Grantaire did not allow himself to look at Enjolras long, the act feeling wrong in the context of his unheard confession. Guilt turned him onto his back to stare at the ceiling instead, though the sound seemed to have roused Enjolras regardless. He made some noise as he sat up and Grantaire, not willing to be caught out in a deceptive sleep, sat up as well. They did not speak for a long time, though they watched each other. 

“Have you sobered?” Enjolras asked, words toneless.

“Yes.” Grantaire said. “Musichetta did not offer you your own bed?” Enjolras, still somewhat in sleep’s hold, yawned before answering. 

“She may have, I could not understand any of them well enough to know.” Grantaire was less than thankful for the reminder of yet another thing to regret.

“We’ll finish our shopping, then we can return to the lighthouse.” He said, unsure how to respond. Enjolras did not question him, he only nodded before climbing to his feet. 

“I have some soreness, but if we walk slow I should experience little issue.” Grantaire nodded, though it was not something he needed to agree to. Enjolras said nothing else. 

The silence was unnerving. It persisted as they left the Corinthe and collected the necessities. Usually Grantaire welcomes when Enjolras quieted down, usually knowing it at least meant he avoided more questioning. In this case, Grantaire felt much the opposite. He would have welcomed questions if he could at least know what emotions hid behind Enjolras’s marble mask. 

Enjolras still did not speak the entire walk home. Grantaire thought of thousands of things to say, each coming up his throat only to die at his lips with one look at Enjolras’s impassive face. His companion stared ahead, eyes focused on seemingly nothing. Grantaire worried, every time they reached an obstacle in the path, if Enjolras would see it at all.

When the tower was clear ahead of them, Grantaire finally garnered the courage to speak. He’d started the conversation a good number of times in his head, a multitude of different ways. He had no idea which of those words would escape once he opened their casing, so he simply waited to let them choose themselves.

“I am sorry for my behavior yesterday.” He said. Enjolras did not turn to him.

“Yes well, you did make a bit of an arse of yourself.” The tone was still too even for Grantaire to be sure if it was joking or not. He felt even more wrongfooted than before. He let them fall into silence again. 

They reached the house soon enough, though the moments had felt excruciatingly long to Grantaire. He put the goods away as Enjolras sat to take weight off from his leg. He had removed the sling on his arm after consulting with Joly, and now made use of both of his hands. Grantaire could only guess he was gladened by the freedom, though his face continued to reveal nothing. 

“I am going to check the lantern.” He said. “I saw clouds forming over the sea, I would prefer to be prepared should they pass through.” Enjolras’s eyes moved to focus on him. 

“Will it take you long?” Grantaire was hopeless in deciphering what the answer Enjolras wanted from him was. He was frozen in indecision. 

“Yes.” He replied, knowing his odds were as good with this answer as the other.

His retreat was hurried, fueled by his desire to escape the suffocating silence Enjolras had created. He took the steps nearly two at a time, despite their uneven nature. Grantaire did not feel that he could breathe at all until he reached the open air at the top. 

The lantern was fine, though a little short on oil which Grantaire was glad to have purchased more of in town. The wick would need replacing some time soon, but he had some of that stored as well. It did not need more than a few adjustments. He had left it burning when they had departed the day before, which had been a waste of oil that he could mourn in retrospect.

Grantaire busied himself as well as he could with the work that needed to be done, but eventually he ran short of things to keep himself occupied. His mind returned again and again to the night before. Enjolras was an idealist, a madman certainly, but he had been right that Grantaire did not consider them strangers. He balked at the word friends, but if the silence indicated anything, he had ruined whatever relationship they had. 

Grantaire took himself onto the widow’s walk, hanging his legs over the edge as he watched the sky go dark. The light of the beam reached its eye far out to sea from his right. It would be blinding, if he turned directly into it, but at the low level at which he sat it shone mostly overhead. A beacon, to both guide towards and chase away. Grantaire, it seemed, excelled at the latter. 

“This is where you come to hide, then?” 

The voice startled him, especially as it seemed to come from the light itself. It took a moment for Grataire to realize Enjolras had merely exited the wrong door, and now stood on the other side. Grantaire stood, still out of the direct beam where it was not too bright. 

“Enjolras?” He said, a traitorous waver in his voice. Enjolras called back an affirmation. “Here, let me help you.”

He stepped forward into the beam, a hand outstretched. Enjolras took it, his hand small and delicate compared to Grantaire’s own. Grantaire used the tether to pull them both down below the main focus of the light. Grantaire blinked some spots from his eyes, his best attempts to shield them not being able to hold back all the light. Enjolras across from him seemed to be doing the same. 

“I usually stay off to the side, there you don’t have to stay low to avoid the light.” Grantaire said. “It may be better if we moved there.”

“I rather like it here with my back to it.” Enjolras gazed outward, expression soft with wonder. “It feels like I am the one lightning up the sea.”

“Still,” Grantaire said. He had not changed his position from a crouch. “It will grow very hot if you stay there long. We should move to the side.” Enjolras let him be pulled out of the way, their hands releasing when they were both settled. Grantaire tried not to think too long on it.

“I think I have figured you out, Grantaire.” Enjolras said, his words sending Grantaire into a panic.

“Have you?” Grantaire spoke as evenly as he could manage. 

“Yes,” He looked at Grantaire through the side of his lashes. “I have caught on. I know your work does not take as long as you pretend.” Grantaire breathed a quiet sigh of relief, willing his heart to calm as well. “Admit it, you hide here with your view.” 

“I will admit it readily.” Grantaire said. “It offers a good place to think when the winds are not too strong.” Enjolras’s gaze returned to the water. 

“I think a good place to think could serve me well.” His hair, now completely down, shivered ever so slightly in the breeze. “So you were not hiding from me, then?”

“It serves as a good hiding place as well.” Grantaire admitted. “I thought you did not want to see me. You did not speak to me at all on our return.”

“Did I not?” Enjolras seemed genuinely surprised. “I am sorry, I have been in deep contemplation all day.” 

“So, you are not angry with me for my behavior last night?” Grantaire asked.

“Do not mistake me, you were abhorrent,” Grantaire winced at the harshness, “I do not care much for the person you become after reaching the bottom of a bottle.”

“You have no proof that I was not simply revealing the person I am, rather than becoming something I am not.” Grantaire’s chest ached, fearing the truth of those words. “Musichetta often does her best to limit me, but last night was not a wholly uncommon occurrence.”

“You would have acted that way had I not been there? Grantaire I would ask you not to lie to me, you had been upset with me for days.”

“I had not.”

“You had. I made you go into town hoping that finding friends would improve your mood. Clearly I was mistaken.” He picked at the fraying strings of his waistcoat. “I think we both made somewhat of a spectacle of ourselves last night.” 

Grantaire remembered Enjolras’s fire, his words that the very air seemed to shake around. Grantaire had made the mistake of listening and questioning. Words like those, men like Enjolras, they were meant to be followed. He was a cynic with a chisel carving away at an immovable mountain. 

“If anyone could make the words you spoke true, I do not doubt it would be you.” He said to the sea, hoping Enjolras overheard them. 

“Are you saying you believe in me, Grantaire?” He asked. 

“Does the belief of a drunken skeptic change anything?”

“You are not drunk now.”

“I could be.” Enjolras turned to face him, though Grantaire could not bring himself to do the same.

“I know you are not.” His eyes lowered from Grantaire’s face to his shoulder. “Though perhaps you are not wrong in your belief not changing anything.” He pulled his legs up from where they hung. “I used to be so sure of so many things. I thought the world could be shaped by anyone who tried, I thought it wanted to be and would help me do it. Maybe I am a fool.”

“I have never been sure of anything.” Grantaire said. “I have started so many things, only to never finish them. You found yourself incapable of changing the world, I found myself incapable of doing anything.” 

“That is untrue.” Enjolras said. “Is that not the last chess piece in your hand?” Grantaire looked down at it.

“Yes, though it is still unfinished.”

“Who is to say that is not simply what it is meant to look like?” Enjolras said. “I was never fond of kings anyway.” 

“You would have me leave him faceless?” Grantaire asked, skeptical. 

“Let him win the right in a game.” Enjolras took it from his hand. “He seems playable enough to me.” 

Grantaire watched as Enjolras examined the wood in his hands. The beam of light, though no longer directly behind them, illuminated him with a white outline. He felt as if he was staring at Enjorlas’s soul, rather than the body it inhabited. 

“I could have been a schoolboy, like you.” He said, seeking some kind of distraction. “I was, for almost a year. We left for Ireland before the end of term.” 

Yet another thing he’d left unfinished. He had lived on his own, and could have easily stayed behind. Grantaire always took an opportunity to run away from things that overwhelmed him, either physically or into the arms of alcohol. He did not have that option now, as Enjolras had for some reason followed him.

“Really? Which university?” Grantaire told him, and Enjolras’s eyes brightened. “We could have been classmates! I would have been in a lower year, but just barely. We almost knew each other all those years ago.” 

“It’s a strange thought.” Grantaire agreed. “Though you would not have liked me much then, I spent more of my time in the company of absinthe. There were many things in my life I had not yet come to terms with, and I was newly unsupervised.” Enjolras visibly grappled with his need to ask, but he refrained. 

“I doubt you would have liked me either.” He said instead. “I was so very focused on all that I wanted to achieve, on all the people I hoped to help, that I very rarely gave any attention to the actual people around me.” He sighed, eyes looking far away from where they were now. “I was so distant, sometimes I wonder if they knew how much I cared for them all.” 

“We are speaking of the shipmates you lost, aren’t we?” 

Grantaire had lost Enjolras’s train of thought somewhere along the conversation, and he spoke trying to reconnect the dots. Enjolras came back to himself slowly at Grantaire’s words, nodding only after a minute had passed. He moved again to turn to him, though he did not focus where he could meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“You have an eyelash,” He said, though Grantaire had no idea how he could see it in the low light. 

Enjolras reached forward, his fingers lightly grazing Grantaire’s cheek. Enjolras’s middle finger tickled at Grantaire’s ear as he used his thumb to brush the eyelash away. They barely touched, but Grantaire found he could not quite breathe as long as those five points lay cool against his skin.

Neither of them moved, even after the act was complete. They sat immobile, Grantaire watching Enjolras as Enjolras kept his eyes fixed on Grantaire’s cheek. Finally he looked up, their eyes meeting for a second before pulling away. Grantaire still could not move or speak for some moments after Enjolras’s retreat. 

“Perhaps we should retire for the night.” He said. 

“Can we wait a moment longer?” Enjolras asked. “The stairs were not very kind to my ankle.”

“There is a room just below where I have been sleeping, if you do not think you can make the journey back down.” 

“That is where you have been sleeping?” Enjolras asked, taken aback. “It was freezing when I stopped there on my ascent.” He shook his head. “I am not so spoiled by Paris that I cannot handle taking turns on the floor. Come back to the house, it is warmer there.”

Grantaire, helpless as ever to refuse him, followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beige by yoke lore played while I was writing this and well I think I've found the fic theme song


	9. Jubilated Jailbird

There was something to be said for what a good night’s sleep could do for one’s day. He had resisted Enjolras’s suggestion for trading the bed originally, but Enjolras was not one to be easily convinced. Grantaire could not bring himself to feel much guilt over the failings of his hospitality though, as waking without stiffness was so much of a relief. 

The chickens took no notice of his improved mood, caring only for the feed Grantaire brought as usual. He let them go about their business as he went about his. The yield from their nests were low, but Grantaire did not leave them empty handed. The morning was cool enough to mist his breath, making vanishing clouds with every exhale. 

“Grantaire!”

The call was cheerful and easily recognizable in its tone. Grantaire turned to see his friend making the gentle ascent up the hill. His brown clothing was Grantaire’s best excuse for not spotting him earlier.

“Bossuet! What brings you here?” He called back happily. “I’m as surprised to see you ashore as I am that you are this far from town.”

Bossuet slipped on some mud left over by the morning rain, though he caught himself on one of the posts enclosing the chicken keep. Grantaire moved to lean against one as well, so they could easily speak over the fence. Rain began to gently fall.

“I’m always steadier on the rocking waves,” Bossuet said, laughing at himself for the fumbling. “I come with news, my friend.”

“What of it?” Grantaire said with interest, moving his head as if that would spare him the falling drops. “Could it not wait a weeks time? I would have returned to town soon enough.”

“Musichetta thought not.” Bossuet removed his cap as they moved under the coverings of the roof edge. “There’s been talk of the arrival of a Frenchman in town.”

“I know, Bossuet. You have met him.” He gestured to the house with a humorous expression. “Should we call him out, to aid your memory?” 

“While I would not protest to seeing Enjolras again, that is not who I’m speaking of.” Grantaire’s good humor faded somewhat. “Joly met him, though briefly, and did not like what he saw. I came to offer some warning, as it won’t be long until he is pointed towards your door.”

Grantaire knew he spoke the truth. For any reason from innocent suggestion of a fellow traveller to malicious hope to get rid of either of them, he expected the stranger to appear before the day was out. He had fairly good luck with strangers of late, so perhaps that would be a blessing.

“Come inside, you came all this way I will not be responsible for you catching cold now. Joly would have my head.” Bossuet laughed, and Grantaire joined him in it.

“Or I would, for subjecting me to Joly's care." He glanced at Grantaire. "You seem in good spirits.” He said. 

“I am happy to see you.” Grantaire answered, as it was partly true. He called out as they came through the door. “Enjolras, we have company.”

Enjolras had been busying himself with the fire, preparing something for breakfast. Grantaire was grateful for the sight, having developed a near dependance on Enjolras’s actual interest in making things taste edible. Enjolras smiled when made aware of their presence, pulling himself to his feet. He extended a hand to Bossuet rather stiffly, though his expression was welcoming.

“Bossuet, hello.” He said in heavily accented English. He returned to French soon after, looking to Grantaire. “I’m sorry, I am not very presentable at the moment.”

“Nor am I, he shouldn’t mind.” Though Grantaire did think, then, of how they must look. Both in some level of undress, comfortably domestic in the scene. Enjolras spoke again, and Grantaire had to be reminded by Bossuet after a few moments to translate.

“He said it is raining ropes out there.” Bossuet gave him a questioning look, reminding Grantaire of the awkwardness a direct translation sometimes left. “It is raining heavily,” He revised. “It is a French expression.”

“Now you are back in the company of your own, I suppose you have no need to speak English.” Bossuet grinned. “Perhaps I should use my favorite French word-”

“I should think not.”He cut in

He put the eggs away, taking out some drink for he, Bossuet and Enjolras to share. Enjolras eyed the bottle with an unpleasant look, so Grantaire made a show of pouring himself only a little. Bossuet watched the exchange.

“Have things improved between you, then?” He asked. Grantaire looked to him curiously. 

“What do you mean?” Bossuet shrugged, seeming uncomfortable in having to explain himself. 

“You did not seem to get on well when I saw you last. I thought surely Enjolras would have left after proving his ability with the walk from here.” He gestured between the two. “I did not expect to find him with you still, is there some other issue?”

Grantaire could think of no answer. What Bossuet said was not wrong, Enjolras could have easily left. He had a destination much farther than Carraig liath after all. Yet until then it had not occurred to him that Enjolras had long since reached the ability to leave. His limp was not so significant to stop him entirely. 

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asked, having come to sit by them. “Grantaire, your expression changed, what is it he said?” He reached to touch Grantaire’s arm through the sleeve. Grantaire, vividly reminded of the touch the night before that he was doing his best to forget, brushed off his hand.

“He had some illness that has not yet faded.” He lied to Bossuet. To Enjolras he gave a different excuse, though similarly untrue. “He reminded me that it is too late to send a birthday gift to my sister and have it reach her on time. It is nothing of consequence.” 

Both men placated, he let conversation return as the rain began to lighten outside. His good humor had made its departure, leaving Grantaire’s mind filled only with questions he did not have the answer to. Why was Enjolras still there? Did it have some connection to the story behind the little boat? He did not want to think on it more. 

He moved as subtly as he could to find another bottle, Bossuet in the midst of attempting to mime out the story of when he claimed to have caught a merrow. It did not offer as much of a distraction as he had hoped, since Enjolras was at his shoulder before he had even finished taking it out. 

“Put the bottle down, Grantaire.” He said, speaking quietly though Bossuet, at the other end of the room, would have no chance of understanding him regardless. 

“It is medicinal, I assure you. Joly's orders.” He said, reaching to open it. Enjolras took the bottle from his hand before he could.

“Do your friends trouble you this greatly?” Grantaire shook his head.

“It has nothing to do with them.” 

“Then what does it have to do with?”

“Nothing more than my own mind.” He said, gesturing for his drink to be given back. “Let me run from it, Enjolras.” He did not return the bottle. 

“I will not.” 

A commanding knock at the door drew the attention of all three men, Enjolras and Grantaire, stood close to one side, and Bossuet sitting to another. All watched the door in silence. Grantaire and Bossuet looked to each other, Bossuet looking uneasy. Grantaire tried to quell a similar feeling, knowing he had very little to fear on the basis of Joly disliking someone's looks and nothing more.

“Seems you were right about the Frenchman coming my way,” Grantaire said. “I’m sure he is simply excited by news of another immigrant from his home country, I have been drawing them like flies of late.” 

Bossuet gave a mistrusting look that he ignored as he made his way to the door. The windows offered no good view of the visitor, so Grantaire opened the door only part way, revealing none of the still silent figures in the room with him. The face he was greeted by was not as friendly as he had hoped, but he did not let himself yet assume the worst.

The man had both height and years on Grantaire, with a severe seriousness that reminded him of Enjolras in those first days. He stood straight and still, his long coat equally schooled from moving despite the light breeze. He did not extend his hand in greeting.

“I am Inspector Javert. To whom am I speaking?” The words were English, though strongly accented.

“Grantaire.” He answered in French. “What occasion does an Inspector have to be in Ireland?” The Inspector showed the slightest flicker or surprise.

“You are the Frenchman, then?” His eyes darted up and down Grantaire’s person. “You are not who I expected.” Grantaire’s thoughts turned immediately to Enjolras, though he said nothing.

“I am sorry to disappoint. Is that all?”

“Not quite,” Inspector said. “I am in pursuit of a certain individual, who word of has lead me here.” 

Grantaire’s heart quickened, though he did his best to remain impassive. He could not see Enjolras, with how the door was positioned, though he now wished he could. Grantaire had difficulty imagining that the Inspector spoke of anyone else.

“It seems,” The man continued. “That in following one path I have stumbled on another.” His eyes narrowed like a hawk having spotted its prey. “Grantaire, do you have a family name?”

“That is it.” He said.

“Have you ever gone by another?” Grantaire’s hand tightened on the wood of the door. 

“That is the one I was born with.” He answered. 

“Well, Monsieur, there are several names that I have some question for you about.” His hands moved from his back to adjust his gloves. “Do the surnames Valjean or Madeleine hold any meaning for you?”

“They do not.” The Inspector did not look dissuaded. 

“Those names are two of the many that a convict, that I have pursued for many years, has used to identify himself.”

“Make your point.” Grantaire said, feeling irate. 

“There is another name you may recognize,” The Inspector said. “Fauchelevent?” 

Grantaire doubted he succeeded in disguising all of his surprise then. From the look of triumph on the Inspectors face, Grantaire suspected that to be true. He felt panic rising in his throat, like an animal slowly being closed in upon by a vicious wolf. 

“I may have heard it, though I know of no ties to any convict.”

“I find that difficult to believe, Monsieur Grantaire.” He removed a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “One of the townspeople, on hearing my plans to visit your home, gave me this letter to deliver.” The Inspector watched him closely. “It is from one Cosette Fauchelevent.” 

Grantaire, at the sound of Cosette’s name, felt a surge of protectiveness that he could do nothing to fulfill. They were both long out of his reach, he could only hope the old man’s paranoia continued to keep them safe. He stood as tall as he was capable, staring down the man in front of him. 

“I have committed no crime, and knew none of my father’s past. You can do nothing to me, Inspector, unless this country has made it so a child carries the sins of his parents.” 

“No one escapes the law, if what you say is untrue it will find you soon enough.” Grantaire could not think of his own sins, not let the Inspector read them from his eyes. “You live alone?” He said, switching to English. “I heard voices in my approach.” 

“He had a visitor,” Bossuet, appearing at his shoulder, said. Grantaire held back a sigh of relief at the reminder of his presence. “I will be making my way back to town now, you can join me on the journey.” He slipped past Grantaire, putting a hand to his shoulder. “I will ensure that he leaves.” He said lowly in Gaelic. The Inspector was tall, but Bossuet had a workers muscle, and he allowed himself to be turned away.

“I have what I need.” He said. “Good day to you, Grantaire, and a warning.” He spoke in French once again. “The person that I sought originally is a dangerous man. He is traitor and assassin both, for your own safety and that of France I would suggest if you find Enjolras to turn him over to authorities at once.” 

“I thank you for the advice.” Grantaire said, hands shaking. He watched as Bossuet guided him away, slowly closing the door. 

Enjolras stood, pale and wide eyed, where Grantaire had left him. He could not yet bring himself to look at him directly, eyes fixed on the door he had closed in front of him. Grantaire closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the wood as his breathing refused to slow.

“Grantaire, if you give me a moment to explain-”

He held up a hand, silencing him. Grantaire removed his head from the door, but replaced the pressure with his hand. He still did not open his eyes or turn to face Enjolras, he did not think himself capable of facing anyone in that moment. 

“I am done,” He said, “With questions that go unanswered.” Enjolras made some sound, but Grantaire silenced him again. “I will give you the chance to explain, if that is what you want." He paused again. "If you do not, I expect you to be gone when I return.” 

He grabbed his long coat, and pulled the door open causing the breeze to blow back his curls. The sky was grey, with dark lines highlighting the pregnant curves of the rain clouds above. They churned slowly, forming a giant beast that crawled across the sky.

“I am going on a walk, make your choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the drama in true Hugo fashion, with Javert inexplicably showing up and stressing everyone out


	10. Glass Confessions

Grantaire could not explain what it felt like to be within his mind at that moment. He had a million things competing for attention, for fear, for understanding. He tried to blink them all away, hearing only his heartbeat in his ears rather than the wind which had begun to pick up speed. He was not sure which of the two moved faster. 

His feet took him past the tower, though he seemed to have no choice in it. He stumbled, more than walked, nearly falling down the pathless slope to the beach below. He did not stop. Away was all Grantaire wanted, to be away from the Inspector, away from the questions he both raised and answered. Away away away. 

A coldness convinced Grantaire to look down, where he found himself surrounded by swirling, grey water. He swayed, pitching forward as he collapsed on his knees, head still hung downward. The water reached his ribs, leaving his hands buoyed out to his sides.

Grantaire sobbed into the open air, an act he had not done since the death of his family. He cried for the new one he may have just betrayed, for the gaping questions the Inspector made him ask, for the ones he would never have answered. They would disappear again. Maybe Cosette would never risk writing to him again, as the only reply he ever sent was a hunting dog on their trail. He cried out the goodbyes they would never hear. 

The sea was not still, waves persistent on pushing him back until he faced the sky. He let them slowly move him until his head rolled back and his eyes closed. His palms lay upturned on the water’s surface, feeling the first drops of rain as they began to fall. 

He stayed, tethered only by his shins on sand below the surface. The all encompassing cold numbed him, smoothing the sharp edges of his mind like sea glass. The tears were replaced by raindrops, though they ran down the same tracks, and Grantaire let the sea carry his tumultuous thoughts from him.

After some time, Grantaire was forced to acknowledge the strength at which he was shivering. The tremors disrupted his meditative state, bringing him to stand and drag his heavy, waterlogged self back to the shore he had wandered from. The rain fell heavily, though Grantaire barely felt it. He had no concept of the time that passed before he was pushing the door of his home open.

Enjolras was sitting on the bed, one of Grantaire’s chess pieces in hand. He looked up quickly at the sound of his entrance, looking wretched in his distress. He was on his feet in moments, across that room in less than that time.

“Grantaire, I,” He stopped himself upon seeing whatever look haunted Grantaire’s eyes. He then turned to examine Grantaire’s shivering self. “You must be freezing, here move closer to the fire.”

Enjolras led him by the sleeve, where he then undressed Grantaire with all the efficiency and focus that Grantaire himself had not managed on that first night. He traded his own shirt, though it had been Grantaire’s originally, to put over Grantaire before retrieving the blanket from the bed. 

“Sit by the fire, you’re shivering still.” He focused on adjusting the blanket, rather than Grantaire himself. “You brought no others with you?” 

“Who would I have come with?” Enjolras still did not meet his eyes. 

“I had suspected you had gone to the authorities.”

“Yet you are still here?” 

“You deserved explanation.” His eyes darted upwards before quickly looking away again. “And perhaps I did not want to think you capable of it.” 

“Haven’t you been listening? I am not capable of anything.” 

“I’ve been listening well, and I know that not to be true.” Enjolras withdrew his hands from the edge of the blanket, folding them in on his bare chest. “I will answer your questions, should you want to ask them.” 

“Tell me your story, I will ask them after.” Enjolras stared into the fire, pausing for a long period before he started to speak.

“In your drunken stupor, you said I would make a fine leader had I only people to lead. I did once, good men, women too, who cared for the country enough to change it and believed that I would lead them there. I considered them all friends, a fraternity of strangers and brothers alike. I do not know why they looked to me, but I considered it a blessing.” A shadow passed over his face. “We attempted an uprising in June, we had it well planned with barricades all across the city. That’s why he called me traitor.” 

“And assasin?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras closed his eyes, though Grantaire thought he saw a tear visible in them. 

“I took life with my own hands on that barricade. We all must have, with the rounds we shot over its walls, though I am the only one that gave faces to it.” Grantaire watched him breathe in the fires warmth. “The first was with us on the barricade, though he was a stranger to me. He had joined the rioting in the streets, though apparently he had not bargained to be an insurgent. He killed a porter while attempting to leave the barricade. I forced him to his knees and shot him through the temple. I do not know what became of the body.”

The image made Grantaire ill. He thought of the man before him, curled in on himself and meek, having the power to force a man to fall and slaughter him seemed almost impossible. He thought of Enjolras at his most cold, most powerful, and felt fear.

“And the other?” He forced himself to ask.

“An artilleryman, that is the assasination they remember me for. We looked so much alike I felt as if I were shooting myself. Combeferre, my fellow and guide, accused me of only aiming, not seeing him, though he was mistaken. He tried to speak of me of the families and loves this individual must have held, but I silenced him. They replaced the man quickly enough.” 

“These are terrible things you have committed.”

“I am not sure which condemned me further. I damned us all with those blows, as Robespierre damned himself with the guillotine. I thought them necessary evils for a brighter future. How easily revolution misleads its champions. It was my fate to die there.” Grantaire was not sure to react, so he questioned further.

“But you did not. How?” 

“I was the last man standing. I watched all of my friends struck down around me while I alone remained unscathed. I see it now, for the divine punishment it was. They cornered me then, in the second story of a wine shop. I must have seemed half mad, because though they easily outnumbered me they kept their distance. I taunted, begged them to shoot me. I wanted to be a martyr, a symbol for those who had not yet lost. It was not until I stared down the end of their bayonets that the doubt entered my mind.” A wall of blond curls moved to cover Enjolras’s face. “I had not thought how much harder it would be to stand for a revolution that no longer stood behind me. I was alone, frightened, and in a building surrounded by the corpses of all I called friend. I did the only thing I could think of and ran.”

That was an action Grantaire couldn’t condemn. Enjolras seemed unable to keep speaking, so he reached and took one of Enjolras’s hands in his own.

“I am with you. Continue.” Enjolras pressed his hand tightly with his own.

“I threw myself from the window.” He said. “I think they were too surprised to act, as I had time to run myself far enough to escape. In the panic I did not even realize the mess I had made of my legs until stopping.” 

“Your ankle.” Grantaire said, more than asked. 

“My knees and hip were badly scraped as well, though I do not think they were broken.” His thumb moved in small circles on Grantaire’s own hand. “I used the last of my money to get to a port and pay my way onto a ship for America.”

“There is more to the story.” Grantaire said, Enjolras’s hand froze its movements. 

“You have no way of knowing that.”

“But I do, there is more you aren’t telling me.” He saw the boat in his mind, and Enjolras’s wide, fearful eyes in front of him.

“I cannot tell it to you.”

“You said you would answer my questions.”

“And I have, but please Grantaire, do not ask this of me. You know my most mortal sins, do not ask me more.” 

Their hands hung limply together between them. Grantaire knew Enjolras, but he did not know this image that Enjolras described. Could he justify it as the cost of battle if Enjolras himself was still the cause? Would he have followed Enjolras, at his most cruel and godly? Grantaire could not see himself in that image. He would be outshined by Enjolras’s blindingly cold aura, that or he would have drunk himself into unconsciousness. 

“Are you afraid of me?” Enjolras asked.

“I am tired.” Grantaire replied. It was true, he had been drained by the events of that day and had no emotion left to give. 

“It is the cold.” Enjolras said, mistaking him. “You are still shivering.”

Grantaire had not noticed. Enjolras took him over to the bed and guided him back into a sitting position. Grantaire thought then, for a flash, of what Enjolras had described when he pushed the murdered to his knees. He tossed the thought away, leaving that for tomorrow’s deliberation. 

“I worry for how much you are still shivering. I can stay close, should you need the heat.” Enjolras looked hesitant of his own suggestion, but Grantaire simply moved over on the bed. This, among the many other things, he was too exhausted to think on. It took only moments before he slipped into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short but there was no way I wasn't going to address the murder, that was kind of a big thing for me when I first read it


	11. Games of Chance

The morning was a wet one, the sound of rain and thunder audible through the thin walls. The wind pulled at its sides, making slow noises like that of a creaking ship. It was not all that unusual a morning, for where Grantaire lived, though he did greet it in unusual warmth. 

He woke to the strange sensation of another body nearby, something Grantaire could not remember doing in his recent memory. His forehead was tucked close to Enjolras’s, a thicket of long blonde hair making its own pillow. He was still shirtless, and Grantaire could see his shoulders rise and fall this his breathing. 

Grantaire rolled on to his back, though the space hardly permitted it. He stared at the roof, deliberating the events of the day before. He had a family he had no ability to protect, an Inspector who had been just short of threatening to investigate him, and a murderous revolutionary in his bed. Grantaire had seen far better days. 

“Are you feeling better?” Enjolras asked voice slurred by sleep. 

“I do not get sick often.” He said. “I have not gotten more than a passing cold since the illness that took my blood family.” Grantaire did not know what he was saying. 

“Alright, though I still worry.” Enjolras said, his words hesitant and confused. Grantaire paused only a minute before beginning to speak again. The words came haltingly, but would not cease.

“My father, though never fond of my artistic pursuits, had set up for me to apprentice under a master in the heart of the city. I had no one with me, and got horribly lost. I wandered for two days before collapsing on the steps of what I would later realize was a convent on the outskirts of the city.” A lump formed in his throat, though he swallowed it down. “One of the convent’s gardeners, a man named Fauchelevent, took me in. He claimed to be repaying a favor involving church steps, though I never found who the favor was owed to. I do not think he had any connection to my family, since he seemed to work so below his station.”

Enjolras hummed thoughtfully, which was the only indication Grantaire had that he was listening at all. He remained turned away, through Enjolras’s breath tickled the side of his neck. Grantaire did not know why he could not stop the words from coming.

“The Sisters let me stay only by the miracle that I promised to fix their faded mural. I was kept strictly away from the girls, and made to wear a bell like a tomcat in need of tracking. I hardly saw Cosette, in the years that we both lived there. We had an uncle too, or so we called him.” Grantaire had sometimes, when feeling hopeful and lonely, speculated about the men who bore no familial resemblance. He often dismissed the thought as soon as it came. “He passed away quite some time ago.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Grantaire ignored him, infused by the need to let all these words escape from his head. They continued to rush out of him.

“We moved in to the city then, though I took my own lodgings soon after. I found an art apprenticeship, but was thrown out by my teacher for one too many acts of indecency.” Indecency being found passed out drunk amongst cavnasses splattered with crude anatomical shapes. Grantaire did not think Enjolras would find it as humorous as he had at that age. “I started university some time after, though I left that too when we all departed. Cosette told me what she thought the cause was, she said Papa had become uneasy of the presence of a young officer that frequently passed the gate when Cosette was in the garden. Really, her only fault in it was becoming beautiful.” He huffed a small attempt at laughter. “A mistake the children of this family only made once, as you can see.” Grantaire did not have much occasion to see his own reflection, but he was no stranger to his standing in the realm of beauty. “But still, it was enough for the old man to look elsewhere. We travelled city to city, for a while, though I had developed a lifestyle in my independance that Papa did not approve of.” 

Grantaire did not know how much the old man understood past the drunken disorder Grantaire returned home in. He did not often understand the need for secrecy, despite having so much of his own, so he would not be wholly surprised to discover he had been followed down to the molly markets in some city or other. 

“When we came through here, I heard of the job, and thought of it as a perfect hiding spot from all the things I wished to avoid. Papa did not protest too hard, I think he feared me a bad influence for Cosette.” He blinked, holding his lids down for a few extra moments of reprieve. “What the Inspector said to me was not a surprise, I had joined this bizarre pattern much too late to simply know nothing else, as Cosette did. I asked questions and suspected, though I never got answers. Both he and I prefer to run from things, I only hope his does not catch up to him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Enjolras asked.

“I do not know.” He replied. Enjolras pulled himself up on to one elbow, only to wince at the stress on his shoulder and reposition. 

“Do you wish to run from me, Grantaire? Or for me to leave?”

“I do not know.” He answered again.

Enjolras was watching him closely. Their faces were a few mere inches apart, close enough for Grantaire to see the same watery blue of morning in Enjolras’s eyes. There were little specs of brown in them as well, which Grantaire did his best to count. 

“What do you think of me, Grantaire?” His voice sounded small, desperate. 

“Still I do not understand why you seek my approval.”

“Who else am I to seek it from? You know I will not ask it of God.” Grantaire was not sure how Enjolras expected him to fill that role instead. 

“I am no saint, Enjolras, I cannot absolve you.” 

“I do not seek absolution, I only wish to know what you think of me.” Grantaire turned his head so that they could see each other. 

“I think of you as a fallen archangel.” 

“So a devil then?” Grantaire shook his head.

“I do not think you fell so far as that.” He said. “You are simply too bright, too severe for this world you have landed in. I am not sure what to make of you.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I do not understand myself.” Grantaire sat up and turned, feeling Enjolras sit up as well. He left his back to him. “I have work to get done, it is storming.” He almost reached the door before Enjolras spoke again.

“Do you want me to leave?”

In all that had happened before, Grantaire had forgotten Bossuet’s words that had been the start of his spiral. Grantaire paused between the possibilities of having this disruption out of his life forever, or accepting this was something he could live with.

“I need some time to myself,” He spoke quietly. “Though I do not need you to leave.” 

Grantaire did not need to turn himself to see the look of relief that crossed Enjolras’s face. He could imagine the raw, open emotion that he had barely glimpsed until the Inspector had shown up at his home and thrown his newly settled normal into disarray. Grantaire wondered, if he could choose to have been visited by neither Frenchman, would he return to his life before.

On his ascent up the tower, Grantaire studied his abandoned art pieces as he had not done since starting them. It would have been beautiful, if he had finished the project. The pastel colors were soft and welcoming in contrast to the grey stone they covered. They did not bring them the same warmth as a human body, but they brought some life to the tower nonetheless.

He stopped, nearly halfway, at the sight of one of his angels. It was vaguely sketched, most of its body and head left to rough lines and little else. He had started at the face, leaving just a sliver of forehead to nose realized. Despite the small detail, and remembering his words from earlier, Grantaire felt a sense of familiarity.

The pastels, which had remained in the watch room, had gathered a sizable amount of dust on their casing. It had been a long time since Grantaire had given them use. He sat on the stair, the lantern he had brought with him barely lighting a space large enough for him to see what he was working on.

There could be no mistaking the form the angel took. Grantaire had seen Enjolras closely enough that the delicate features came easily. The shading was done with his thumb, which soon smarted from the uneven surface of the stone. He scratched at his scruff as well, likely powdering himself in pink and yellow streaks. 

The hair came just as easily, though he spent time deciding on its arrangement. He decided against having it tied back, the resemblance to Enjolras becoming too great for him to feel the muse only. He added more clothing too, though he supposed he had now seen Enjolras’s healed chest for reference. 

In his original sketch, the angel had been brandishing a sword. Grantaire left that to decide last, contemplating what he would let himself mean by it. He deliberated, briefly, of putting a musket in the angel’s hands. He could not bring himself to produce it, though the image stuck with him. He drew the sword, as it belonged, though he made it a rusty one. He could not decide what he meant by that, either. 

With his return, he found Enjolras heating water for tea. He gestured with it in askance, which Grantaire nodded to. Enjolras continued to busy himself with the fire. Grantaire, slight damp from his run between tower and home, moved a chair to sit beside him. Enjolras stayed unresponsive. 

“I did not think you capable of silence this long.” He said after he had watched the water boil. Enjolras seemed not to understand he meant it as a joke.

“I can when I make an effort.” He prodded the fire. “I lived alone, but I was almost constantly in the company of friends and fellow insurgents.”

“Your words kept your cause alive.” Enjolras nodded. “You need not silence yourself on my account. I think I would prefer if we went about as we did.”

“Let me ask you a question then.”

“I should have suspected.” Enjolras smiled, though Grantaire was still too tired to return it.

“Why is the wood so different here? The fires smell different.”

“We burn the peat here, instead of birch. The smell is from that.” 

Grantaire watched his hands, which Enjolras kept folded restlessly in his lap. He wondered if Enjolras would let him hold them again, or if that was something they left for times of crisis. Those seemed to happen frequently enough, as it was. 

“Chess?” He asked, instead of any of the things he wished to say.

“Of course.” Enjolras replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would people want this fic to be explicit at some point? I'm debating


	12. In Terms of Dreaming

To have all that one knew of a person challenged was not something easy to overcome. Grantaire caught himself contemplating it almost constantly, though he tried his best to push the thoughts away. It haunted him still, and more than once he had to catch himself flinching away from Enjolras’s touch, unable to combine his memories of their soft touches with the actions Enjolras spoke of. 

He provided excuses, though Enjolras had given none to defend himself. It had been a dire situation, Grantaire knew. They were being fired upon, it made sense to fire back when the time came. The man on the barricade was a murderer, and though Enjolras was no qualified judge, it made sense to not want him on the barricade.

Grantaire circled through excuses and condemnations. He wondered, briefly, if he would be so inclined to justify Enjolras’s actions had he not considered him a friend. Would he have been as hesitant to turn him away had he known this at the beginning? If he could not accept it, that meant Enjolras would leave, and Grantaire did not think himself capable of losing anyone else.

The nightmares persisted, making pity come easier. By some unspoken agreement, they continued to share the bed and cling to each other in sleep despite their waking distance. It had no effect on Enjolras’s dreams, though Grantaire learned early that when he was woken by one to move as far back as he could. Enjolras did not take well to being touched, often thrashing against the contact in his sleep. For some time, Grantaire attempted the strategy of calling out to him, though Enjolras eventually asked him to cease.

“I saw you there.” He said, breathing hard against Grantaire’s chest. “I was standing atop the barricade, daring the bullets to hit me, and you climbed up after calling my name.” His hand tightened around the front of Grantaire’s shirt, an inexplicable comfort he had discovered that first time. “I saw you shot down as you reached to pull me away.” He curled up further. “I do not think it helps to hear you when I am there.”

Grantaire agreed to discontinue the practice, and when the nightmares did wake him he was forced to let them run their course. It was hard to think of Enjolras as monstrous when he watched him curled in on himself and crying out like a frightened child.

He was woken by movement, Enjolras’s attempt to climb out of the bed jostling him. It was a relief that this was not another day started by nightmares. He could hear Enjolras busying himself to prepare food, though he waited some minutes more before accepting that sleep had in fact left him. 

When joining Enjolras, their shoulders brushed. He could not help but focus all his attention on the minute contact for the few seconds it lasted. Grantaire did not know when he had changed from avoiding Enjolras’s touch to craving it. It had become almost like a tether, grounding Grantaire in reality other than in the swirling water of his thoughts. 

“How did you sleep?” Enjolras asked. 

“Well enough.” Grantaire replied. “And you?”

“The same. Did you dream last night? You seemed restless.” 

Grantaire had, though the dream itself was not much more than a jumbled set of images that he saw himself react to outside his own body. The sort that made sense as he experienced it, but faded into confusion upon waking. It was not something he could easily explain. 

“Yes, though it was meaningless.” Enjolras nodded. 

“I dreamed as well. You were there.” Grantaire looked to him then, he did not need to voice his thoughts for Enjolras to understand. “We were not at the barricade.” He assured him. “We were aboard a ship actually.” He smiled. “It was peaceful.” 

“I am not so easy a travel companion, though I am glad your imagination thought otherwise.” He picked up one of the cups, though it had nothing in it. The shape made for something to occupy his hands at least. “Where was this ship headed?” At the question, Enjolras grew tense.

“America, I would assume.” 

They both fell silent, Grantaire overcome by an aching pain in his chest. They both knew they were avoiding the subject of departure, and neither wanted to bring it back into discussion. Grantaire quickly sought a change of subject. 

“Yesterday I saw the windows of the lantern were in need of a washing. The rain often does most of the work, but salt from the seaspray makes it so they need to be cleaned on occasion. Would you like to help me?”

“I would.”

After the agreement, they separated to complete the task. Grantaire drew water from the well that they needed for their venture while Enjolras fetched the rags. The bucket he chose for the job was large, and Enjolras returned just as Grantaire lifted it from the ground. 

“I see now how I was carried from the beach.” He marveled.

“You were not as light as a bucket of water.” Grantaire said, nearly groaning from the memory. He was not sure his back would ever recover from the strain.

“Then I admire your strength all the more.” Grantaire felt his cheeks color, so he moved to lead them up as a strategy to hide his face from Enjolras. He was not entirely sure he had escaped prying eyes entirely, 

Their ascent was slow, Grantaire weighed down by the bucket and Enjolras plagued by his limp. They rested once or twice before making it to the lantern, something that felt like a relief to them both. By Grantaire’s own mistake, he paused too closely to his finished angel.

“I don’t believe that was here when I last climbed.” Enjolras observed. Grantaire watched his face nervously for reaction, though he was given none but a carefully maintained blankness. “Is that blood on the sword, then?”

“Rust.” Grantaire corrected, though Enjolras did not seem convinced. Grantaire recognized hints of anger and frustration peaking through, though they calmed him less than he would hope. Now that he could decipher Enjolras’s reactions, he was forced to hold some guilt for causing them.

Enjolras did not speak as they made their way up the rest of the steps. If Grantaire tried he could hear his breathing as he followed, labored from the sudden activity. Grantaire did not turn his head to check, feeling somewhat like Orpheus guiding Eurydice in the dark passage. He hoped their next interaction would end better than theirs.

At the top, Enjolras silently took a wet rag and moved to the opposite window to where Grantaire had begun to work. He watched him through the two panes of glass, though Enjolras seemed too consumed by his own thoughts to notice. He worked meticulously, making precise circles with his good arm. 

Mirroring each other as they were, across the lantern, Grantaire was forced to recognize the many differences between their appearances. Where Enjolras was tall and thin, Grantaire was short and stocky. The fair to his dark, the neat to his disarray. Grantaire wondered if they would have ever bonded to each other, had the situation not forced it. 

He imagined what Enjolras was before he had failed. The pure, unfettered idealist who had never been poisoned by doubt. It was so far from Grantaire’s own experiences, that he could not create more than a pale shadow in his mind. Even the shadow seemed intimidating in its greatness. Maybe he would have been capable dying by the lead of that man, inspired by his bravery and belief.

But Grantaire’s Enjolras was not that man. Grantaire did not know if he would ever have the courage to reach out to the man Enjolras was, to touch him and speak to him as another man. He was grateful then, not for Enjolras’s suffering, but for the man he had the privilege to meet. He was wonderful and bright still, but he was human. 

He watched Enjolras’s image through the warped glass. He was not much more than a smeared set of colors, that threadbare yet vibrant red waistcoat being the most striking of all. In this position he could not see Enjolras’s beauty, which had pulled that first confession from him, nor his coldness that left that pit of fear in the bottom of his stomach. He wondered if he were capable of dying for the Enjolras of days past, but he knew he would stand with this one. 

Grantaire felt like he had taken a blow to the chest, his breath leaving him. He took a physical step back, overcome with emotions that swarmed him. The only one he let himself feel in entirety was understanding. 

He was in love with Enjolras. Hopelessly so. It was no great friendship that pulled this devotion from him, but a feeling far more new and terrifying. He backed himself up against the edge of the widow’s walk, half expecting to let himself lean all the way off. He was not sure which fall would bring more pain. 

“My cloth has run dry, is the bucket with you?” Enjolras called, blur moving to round the side and join him. Grantaire did his best to school his reaction. “Taking a break already?” Enjolras asked, a humorous glint to his eyes. It faded quickly when Grantaire did not respond in kind.

“It is nothing,” He said to comfort him. “A gull flew by with unexpected closeness. I was startled.” 

“A strange lie, but a lie nonetheless.” Enjolrs moved to join him. “What is troubling you, Grantaire?” Grantaire could not think of any suitable answer. 

“I have let myself make a mistake.” Enjolras’s brow pinched in confusion. 

“Just now? The window appears fine, is there some joke I have missed?”

“It is no joke,” Grantaire said, “And it was not in this moment alone.” He rubbed his eyes. It had been longer, far longer than he had been willing to admit. 

“Will you not tell me what it is?” Grantaire did not, could not speak further. Enjolras watched him. “Come, then, let us take a break in your favorite thinking place.” He smiled, though somewhat sadly. “Maybe the sea can listen to what you cannot tell me.” 

Grantaire let himself be pulled to where Enjolras intended. It was where they had sat the night Enjolras had come to find him, which Grantaire was impressed Enjolras could decipher from the nearly identical circle of walk. They sat, facing the open water. He let the silence hang about them, comforting though suspicious, as he knew a question from Enjolras could not be far off. 

“Are your anxieties due to me?” Enjolras asked, not far after his cue. Grantaire panicked, though it only took him a moment to recall what Enjolras was referring to. 

“I am not thinking of the story you told me.” He said. “The drawing was meant to be rust, I swear it.”

“What does the rust signify, then?”

“What do you wish it to mean?” They watched each other closely. 

“That you think I past my fighting days, ready to lay down a sword that will offer me no help.” He looked away. “I do not know if that is true of myself, but if I were to pick any meaning it would be that.”

“Do you think your actions justified, even now?”

“Yes, though that does not mean I experience no guilt from them.” Enjolras gave a huff of frustration. “Grantaire surely you are as tired as me of this same conversation, so I must know. I dislike avoiding what I think needs to be said, so I will say it. I ask again what you think of me, declaring that I think my actions right, though I am not sure if I would repeat them if I were in that time again. I became a person during our revolt that I had not been before nor have I been after. He would not care for your judgement, but I now do.” Grantaire watched as he spoke, yearning to reach out and comfort him but also knowing why he could not. 

“You are a friend to me, Enjolras. You were before the Inspector’s arrival and you are still after.” He wrung his hands. “We each have distasteful qualities, though I am not sure I can easily equate drunken rudeness and murder.” They both laughed slightly, though it should not have been comedic. “I can’t offer you forgiveness, I have no authority by which to give it, but I can tell you that this has not changed who you are to me.” It was the truth, though Enjolras had no need to know what Grantaire considered him to be. 

“Thank you.” Enjolras said. “I could ask you no more.” He stood, lending a hand to pull Grantaire up with him, though the weight made him stumble. “Come, you have given me a job, I may as well do my best to finish it.”


	13. Exchanges

Life had, unexpectedly, not changed at all since Grantaire’s realization of his feelings. Grantaire had intended to bring his guard back up, but it would seem Enjolras had destroyed it beyond all repair. The soft touches, exchanging of smiles and quiet words kept him wholly incapable of distancing himself. He only felt pulled in further like a ship to the center of a whirlpool. Grantaire hoped a similar fate of destruction did not await him. 

Enjolras of course was no different, though Grantaire was unsure if that helped or hurt his efforts to ignore it. He continued to be tactile and conversational, though Grantaire could now recognize the strange feelings in his chest whenever he was. It was impractical, really, to react so constantly to someone he lived with. He found it tiring. 

“Are you ready to go?” Enjolras called.

“Just nearly.” Grantaire responded, latching the gate to the chicken coup. He did his best to keep his heart from jumping in his chest at the words. Impractical.

He was due to collect his payment in town, so he and Enjolras had decided to make a trip of it. They had other supplies worth fetching, and Grantaire hoped to get Enjolras his own coat if chances permitted it. The weather had been kind, but would not stay so for many more months. He felt strange, suggesting Enjolras would still be here in that time, but Enjolras had only smiled at the suggestion. 

They were not spared the dampness on their journey, a light misting accompanied by fog caused Grantaire’s curls to weigh low on his head. It obscured their view as well, causing the tower to vanish behind them much earlier than usual. Luckily the path was well enough worn by the likes of cattle and common folk that they found their way without much issue. 

“Will we be staying the night again?” Enjolras asked as they walked.

“I do not feel comfortable leaving the lighthouse so long abandoned in the fog. We will return before nightfall.” He felt another answer soon coming, so he answered it as well. “There is no need to visit the Corinthe today. I will not be drinking.”

“Non licet omnibus adire Corinthum.” Enjolras said, thoughtfully. “There was a Corinthe in Paris.”

“I may have been a frequent patron.” He nodded in the direction of the town. “That is where this one takes its name from, for me at least.” 

“Yet another place we could have met, had our timing been right, though I was much more often at the Cafe Musain.” He paused. “The Parisian Corinthe was destroyed, as it held the site of our barricade.” Grantaire sought to dispel the dark shadow that crossed Enjolras’s face. .

“For the sake of Musichetta, I would ask you to leave this one in tact.” Enjolras inclined his head.

“I will do my best.” 

They passed Mrs. Millea’s house without much event, though she glared harshly from her doorstep. Grantaire did not have the energy to enquire what they had done to offend this time, so he refused her the satisfaction of acknowledgement before continuing on. He could not sway her thoughts, so perhaps it was better not to ask them.

The mayor’s house was in the west side of town, at the end of one of the main streets. Grantaire had been told, originally, that he was to collect his pay in the town hall. That building, however, often sat in vacant disrepair. The mayor had things delivered to his own stead, and distributed them himself. It was not the most formal course of action, but in a town where everyone knew everyone it was not all that difficult to execute. 

It was a large house, by the standards of the town. Mayor MacKiernan lived comfortably enough, and was content to usually let people about their own businesses. It suited the people fine, and he had been in office for more years than Grantaire knew. 

“It may be best if you wait for me out here.” He told Enjolras. “I would prefer not to be drawn into any long conversation, and I fear explaining your presence would cause one.” Enjolras nodded in understanding, and Grantaire went to the door on his own.

The Mayor was a graying, hunched old man who lived alone. He had lost his wife in the birth of their second child, and lost the first to illness some years after. He was convinced that Grantaire, with their shared experience of solitude, looked up to him. Whenever Grantaire did visit, the man tried to impart some wisdom on him. That, or he simply attempted to talk Grantaire to death. 

“Grantaire! I expected you to be arriving sometime soon. Come in.” The gestured Grantaire over the threshold. “I am making tea, would you care for some?”

“Better that I don’t.” Grantaire said. “I have someone waiting on me.”

“Is it that tavern girl? I have said before a marriage would suit you both well.” Grantaire struggled to keep his face even at the thought of he and Musichetta marrying. He did take the excuse as it came.

“Yes, so I unfortunately cannot stay long.” the Mayor hummed, searching through his things. 

“I have the company of neighbors, at least. Do you not feel lonely, out there on your own?”

“I manage.” Grantaire said, thinking of Enjolras outside. He supposed company did make the days pass easier. 

“There was a traveller I sent your way some time ago.” The mayor said, continuing to search for some lost thing. Grantaire hoped it was not his pay. “Another Frenchman, if you can believe it. He was asking after any recent arrivals in town, and I told him we had only one Frenchman in town who had been here for some years. I gave him your post, as he expressed an interest in calling on you. There is more of that here somewhere as well. He left in such a hurry, are you all so busy?” Grantaire was very grateful he had not brought Enjolras in with him, though his attention had been caught by something else the mayor had said. 

“Did you say I had a letter?” He asked, heart quickening. 

“Another book too, I assume. Why surely you must have more books than home at this point.” Grantaire hardly listened. 

“Where is it?”

“Oh, over there somewhere.” The old man mumbled, gesturing vaguely. Grantaire followed the trajectory, searching almost frantically until he held the object in his hands. 

“Apologies, but I must leave immediately.” He said, eyes not leaving the letters of his name written in Cosette’s handwriting. 

“But your pay?” 

“It was with the package.” Grantaire said, though he could not bring himself to care for it. The mayor tutted, blaming his forgetfulness. “Good day to you.” Grantaire said in reply, letting his feet carry him quickly from the room. 

Enjolras greeted him as he exited the building, though Grantaire did not pause in his step. He saw Enjolras turn to confusion as he continued his quickened pace away from prying eyes. The fog did not hide him well enough, and he needed to be away. 

“Grantaire, wait!” Enjolras’s voice was what managed to finally stop his walking, calling from much farther back than he had realized. Grantaire waited, frozen, as Enjolras limped his way to where he stood. “I can not keep up with you at that speed. What happened?” 

“There is word from my family.” He said, pressing the package into his chest. Enjolras looked down to it before putting a hand on Grantaire’s wrist. 

“Do you want to return to the lighthouse?” Grantaire shook his head. He was not sure he could make it that far. Enjolras looked about, trying to come up with another option. “What of the Corinthe? I know we did not plan to stop there but it will be warmer than the street.”

“That,” Grantaire said shakily. “That may help.”

Enjolras did not know the way, so Grantaire absently guided them both there. He fiddled with the edges of the wrapping as they walked, both elated by its presence and fearing what it held. He had not expected news of any sort after the Inspector, so he hoped that it had not simply been a delayed delivery from before. 

He chose a table in the back corner, waving away Musichetta’s concern. Enjolras followed, but did not sit down. They both stared at the package before him, neither speaking a word. After a moment, Enjolras put a light hand in between Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“I will get what I can from the market. You should have whatever privacy you need.” Grantaire nodded, and Enjolras made his exit.

He waited some moments still before finally undoing the wrappings. There was indeed a book, though Grantaire barely gave it a glance before unfolding the letter that had been with it. Cosette’s neat, tiny scrawl was easily recognizable. He quickly scoured the words.

_Dearest Brother,_

_ You will see, from the address, that we have recently relocated. I was not happy to leave, but we are in London! There are so many people, and while the city seems ever so dirty, it is an exciting change of scenery. I hope to meet many more people, though Papa has not let me leave the house much since our move. You do know how he gets. _

_ I hope you did not think I had forgotten you, in my space between letters. I bought this book as apology, though I did have some difficulty acquiring it. The bookseller was somewhat rude, suggesting that a girl such as I would prefer something more trivial. I imagine he was having some difficulties in his day, as cause for his rudeness, but I was not in the mood for it. I behaved quite frightfully, threatening to warn all that I knew away from his shop. He apologized quickly, and even lowered the price. I imagine you would have laughed. I did, after leaving, though now I do not think I can ever return again. Luckily he was unaware that I knew of no one in the city. _

_ Papa put a letter of his own in the book before I posted it, though he made me swear not to read it. I am curious to know what strange secrets he disclosed to you, he tells me so very little. I should like to settle down as you did, I think. I love to travel, seeing new sights so often, but I had grown rather comfortable with our life in Dublin. I envy your freedom, as it is far less easy to make a woman’s own way in this world. I could become a factory girl, I suppose. Without a husband the limits number so many. _

_I seem to have taken a rather morose turn with this letter, I apologize. I do not wish you to worry for me, I am simply sad to have moved again. Perhaps one day we will make our way back and visit you. I hope so, it has been so long since I have heard from you._

_ With love, _

_ Cosette. _

Grantaire was overcome with relief from her words. They were safe in London, having evaded the Inspector. He put the letter down on the table, hands shaking still. Despite the years distance, Grantaire could hear her voice speaking the words. He wished she knew what comfort she brought.

The book was a collection of poems written by a man named William Blake. It was paired with illustrations too, also by him, which Grantaire could only assume was Cosette’s reason for the choice. The drawings reminded him of Goya somewhat, though even more bizarre. He understood, flipping through the nude images, why the bookseller had been so shocked at her choice. 

The flipping of the pages let fall the other letter Cosette had spoke of. Grantaire eyed it uneasily, as he had not received any direct correspondence from Papa since his leaving. He hoped it was not a reproach for his careless directing of the Inspector, though he would suppose the mayor held the true blame. He unfolded this letter more hesitantly and began to read.

_ Grantaire, _

_ My dear boy, I hope that this letter finds you well. I know it has been some years since I have sent you any word, and that it may be a surprise to hear from me now. We did not part on the best of terms, and I convinced myself you would prefer that I not try to reach out. I think that an old man’s tired excuse now. I did not want to face the change in our relationship. I wish you to know that I often asked Cosette for news of you, though it seems you treated us both to silence. _

_ I am forever grateful that God granted me a son that day. I had never expected to have one, but I take it for the blessing that it is. I wish we had not grown apart. Your life took you down a path I did not understand, and I sometimes feared the attention it might bring. I should not have let that come between us, though I hope you have found happiness where you settled. Your sister and I both miss you greatly. _

_ There is a point to this letter, other than a father’s regrets. The recent appearance of a familiar face in Dublin has given me some concerns to your wellbeing. Javert is a thorough man, and if he has discovered our trail after all these years, I cannot doubt it lead him to you. We escaped his claws yet again by luck of some street gamin who I had taken to giving bread some time ago. One was in the custody of police for some pickpocketing crime when he overheard my name and address being exchanged between officers. He was luckily freed, for lack of evidence, and came to warn me. Cosette and I were able to slip away before they came in search of us. _

_ If the Inspector did indeed find you, I imagine I have some questions to answer. If not, would it be too much to request that you not read further? I imagine your curiosity would not permit it, but I can hope. I will give you my story, as well as I can remember it. I ask only that you tell none of it to Cosette. I will in my own time, but should I lose you both for what it contains, I do not think I could bear it happening in the same moment. I love you, my son, and I hope that you can understand. _

Grantaire swept the tears from his face, having not noticed when they began to fall. The letter continued, but he had to pause before continuing. A knot he had not realized he had been carrying was released in his chest at the words, and with it a deep exhale. The feeling alone renewed the wetness in his eyes.

The story Papa spun was a long-winded one. It was crammed into the sheet of paper, filling up every margin and space. It continued like that for several pages, each crammed into the book and taking up more space than the poems themselves. It gave explanation for the names the Inspector had said, as well as the favor he had told Grantaire he was repaying. It filled many gaps and gave reason to many more things than Grantaire had before realized were strange. It also made him laugh.

“Now how does one manage to get himself buried alive?” He wondered under his breath. He had been similarly shocked into humour by both the vision of his Papa as mayor with Javert working at his side, as well as his story of escaping by throwing himself into a river. He could hardly believe a man capable of all this in several lifetimes, let alone half of one. 

What Grantaire did not understand was Papa’s sense of shame. He understood how convicts were treated, further after reading the letter’s description, but surely he could not expect that same hatred from his own family. Grantaire had accepted Enjolras, after all. The petty thievery of the man called Jean Valjean was pale in comparison. 

“Musichetta, have you a pen and ink?” He asked, after having called her over. 

“Yes, for the ledgers. What do you need it for?”

“I am writing a letter.” He said. “Can I use it?”

“Of course. Sand as well, should you need it.” She watched him closely, the contrary appearance of tear tracks and a smile confusing her. “Are you alright, Grantaire?”

“I am.” He said truthfully. When she returned with the supplies, he took them from her eagerly.

Grantaire wished to speak to them both at once, though no feats of travel would ever make that possible. He instead was forced to settle for pulling a blank page from the back of the book, with a silent apology to Cosette on its behalf, and immediately setting upon it with the pen tip.

He did not know what to say to either of them, though he let his mind do its best to keep up with his hand. Grantaire assured them both he was well, and that while he had some unexpected visitors of late, all was well. He kept any mention of the Inspector vague, acknowledging Papa’s wish for Cosette not to know. Grantaire wished to tell her, knowing that those questions had plagued her much longer than he.

After some moments of deliberation, he mentioned Enjolras as well. He explained that he had been washed ashore, and that they had become close friends in his recovery. He hoped it would give them some comfort, to know he was not alone in his isolation. He paused, someway through, to wonder if Papa would have any conclusion to reach from his words. His besotted heart would have to be restrained in his descriptions. He could not imagine explaining his life now without one of the most important figures in it.

He gave some detail of the town, of his friends as well. It was a vibrant picture, likely contrary to the foggy reside they both remembered passing through. The rest of the paper he filled with ink sketches of the figures he mentioned. Cosette had always loved his drawings, and Grantaire had always been better with his pictures than his words. He hoped Musichetta did not resent the waste of ink. 

Enjolras’s return was visible to him from the table. His figure was recognizable from the silhouette he made against the white fog beyond the door, and Grantaire smiled in his direction. He approached slowly, hesitant of Grantaire’s somewhat manic look. Grantaire stood to meet him, thoughtlessly pulling Enjolras in to a tight embrace in his excitement. 

After some pause, Enjolras’s arms wrapped around him as well. Grantaire kept his face pressed to his shoulder, tears of relief and joy still seeping out to wet Enjolras’s shirt. Despite his greater bulk, Grantaire felt sheltered by Enjolras's greater height. He could feel Enjolras's chin tucking in against the side of his head. He imagined he would have stayed in that pose forever, had not the absent cough of another patron brought him back to himself. 

“Ah, I am sorry.” He said, releasing him.

“You need not apologize.” He assured, keeping his hands on Grantaire’s biceps. It kept him from retreating far. “The news was good, then?” He asked, trying to decipher Grantaire’s expression.

“It was.” He wiped away some of the remaining wetness on his cheeks. Enjolras’s hands tightened slightly at the sight. “I am writing a response to them now. You can read it if you wish.” They sat down together, Enjolras taking to peering at the letter from his shoulder.

“Is that me?” He pointed to one of the many sketches. Grantaire had sketched him mid sentence, having just looked up from a book in his hands. He thought it had captured him well. Enjolras moved to read the paragraph it went with. “Surely I’m good for more than intellectual discussion?” He questioned, eyes glinting with that spark of humor.

“You are right,” Grantaire conceded. “I should have written argumentative errand boy as well.” Enjolras gestured to the items he had gathered.

“You will not want me as an errand boy after this. I’m fairly certain each person raised their price just at the sight of me.” Grantaire smiled. 

“I am shocked you did not lecture them into compliance about the exploitation of immigrants.”

“I may have lectured, I may have swore. As they do not speak French, they will never know.” Grantaire tested the dryness of the ink. 

“I’m sure your cadence told them more than enough. Come,” He said. “Let us see if we can repair your relations with the good people of Carraig Liath.”


	14. Offering Reflections

“Whatever can you mean, education is not important?” Enjolras nearly shouted, pacing about the room.

“I have met a great many people with no schooling that are far smarter than those I have met with.” Grantaire responded neutrally from where he sat carving a little bit of wood. The king still rested faceless on the board Grantaire had drawn with charcoal.

“Then surely you should support greater accessibility!” Enjolras brushed away hairs that had come loose with his frustrated gesturing. He did not cease his pacing. “Give the opportunity for those with the greatest minds to advance further than those with simply the greatest wealth.” 

“I think mankind is better suited to the uncivilized brutality of old. Give no one schooling, let only the strong survive.” Enjolras turned to him in horror.

“Grantaire, you cannot really believe that, that’s barbaric! I-“ He caught sight of the smile Grantaire could no longer restrain. “You,” he said, slow realization dawning, “You are doing it again.” Grantaire inclined his head, confessing guilt. Enjolras released a loud breath. “Grantaire you can’t know how incredibly frustrating that is.” 

“I take no fault for your gullibility.” He said. “It is entertaining to see you struggle to argue against ridiculous oppositions.” 

“Entertaining for you, perhaps.” He came to sit by Grantaire, his hand resting just to the side of Grantaire’s leg. “I can never tell when you’re arguing your own opinion or something meant only to aggravate me.”

“That is assuming I have any true opinions of my own. Should I think you mean I argue them equally well?”

“I would not recommend seeking praise from me now. I very nearly threw something at you.” Grantaire smirked.

“You should thank me for keeping your days interesting.”

“I will thank you when I am less inclined to throttle you.” 

They let silence descend momentarily. Enjolras moved so his back rested against the wall as Grantaire’s did, pulling a leg up with him. He watched Grantaire’s hands in their pursuit with intent focus.

“What is it you are working on now?” He reached forward as Grantaire stopped his cutting, using his fingers to turn it over in Grantaire’s own hand. 

“I know not what it is, only what it could be.” He answered, revising a moment later. “No, I don’t know that either.” 

“It is shaped somewhat like a bird.” Enjolras said. “See there? That takes the form of a beak.” 

“A bird? Yes I suppose I see it.” The idea was as good as any, and he set to defining the wing as Enjolras extracted his hand. Grantaire felt the warmth from where they had touched still. “You seem particularly active today, Enjolras. Are you bored with me already?” 

“Not in the least.” Enjolras said. “I simply had interesting dreams. They often lead to an interesting day.” Grantaire watched him doubtfully. 

“And what were these dreams of?” Enjolras, one knee tucked under his chin, smiled serenely.

“Possibilities.” Grantaire sighed at the unhelpful answer, putting the wood down. 

“Keep your secrets then.” He moved to get his coat. “The tide is low, care to check the shores with me?” Enjolras tilted his head to the side, smiling still. 

“Of course.” He said.

They both pulled coats over, though the weather was still temperate. Enjolras greeted the cool air with bright eyes, which then turned their intense focus on Grantaire. It would seem Enjolras had set himself a mission. 

For the walk down the slope towards the beach, Enjolras pointed at object after object, inquiring after their English names. Grantaire knew there was hardly a chance of Enjolras learning them all as quickly as he asked, but obliged him regardless. He’d offer the English, and Enjolras would repeat it accompanied by the definition quietly to himself. Grantaire imagined the sudden interest in learning stemmed from Enjolras exhausting his supply of French works.

His energetic attentiveness was somewhat infectious, and Grantaire too soon found himself quickening his step with excitement. It did not matter that the sight would be as underwhelming and grey as it always was, Grantaire was infused by a strange giddiness. With Enjolras, it would seem, even the routine became enjoyable.

Enjolras was perhaps too eager, and misjudged some step. He pitched forward, though Grantaire was lucky enough to turn and catch him. It would not have been a bad fall, hardly more than a slight scuff, but Enjolras patted the arms that had caught him gratefully. Grantaire righted him before speaking. 

“The word for that is ‘fall.’ We generally prefer to avoid them.” He said, not allowing Enjolras to avoid embarrassment entirely. Enjolras side eyed him with annoyance. “It is also, like in the French, used to describe forming feelings for another person. Though ‘falling into apples’ is meaningless in English, I must warn you.” He made a mock gesture of fainting, to accentuate his point. Enjolras seemed not to notice. 

“An interesting way to say it, I’ve always thought.” Enjolras said. It took Grantaire a moment to realize he was not speaking of the apples. “I suppose falls of that type people do not prefer to avoid.” 

“That depends,” Grantaire countered, “Rather entirely on where they land.” He expected annoyance for his play on the meanings, but Enjolras simply looked thoughtful. 

“I suppose you are right, there.” Enjolras said contemplatively. The reaction was confusing to Grantaire, so he did his best to dispel it. He skipped forward a few steps, turning backwards so to face him.

“Forgive me, did you just admit that I was right in something?”

“Context is of the utmost importance, Grantaire.” 

“Is it? I don’t believe I heard anything else. Just those few, precious words.” He made circles around Enjolras as they walked. “Any chance you’ll repeat them? I may have misheard you.” He was shoved to the side for his efforts.

They continued to tease each other until they reached the shore. The water had receded far enough that they could walk on the sand mostly, saving Enjolras the trouble of climbing over the larger rocks. He brought them out onto the wetter sand, where he taught Enjolras both the word for clams at the strategies for finding them. He warned that the birds had likely laid claim to any already, but he could see the determination in Enjolras’s that would take no alternative to success. 

Setting any challenge for Enjolras turned to be a dangerous strategy. Enjolras gave it his unyielding attention, barely attempting any conversation as he searched for bubbles in the sand with a sharp focus. Soon enough, they’d wandered some distance apart, Grantaire moving far slower and straying less far from the shore.

After some time, Grantaire moved himself to sit on one of the dark rocks, which spent the greater half of its time under the surface. He watched the horizon, and he watched Enjolras as he left a trail of sunken indents in the sand behind him. The reflections in the water made it seem that he walked in the sky itself. It was the closest equivalent to a heavenly sight that Grantaire would ever have, and he knew well which he’d rather worship.

There was something beautiful, Grantaire thought, in loving a man like him. Even unrequited, it made the whole world brighter, brought it more into focus. Grantaire imagined this was how Enjolras saw the entire world, having that devotion Grantaire held with him for all that he believed in. Grantaire didn’t understand how one could spread themselves that thin, caring for Enjolras alone seemed to utterly consume him.

Enjolras, as if sensing Grantaire’s attentions, looked up. He smiled from where he stood in the flat sand, though Grantaire could hardly see it. He then attempted a wave. The pale blues and yellows of a soon to be evening sky flowed behind him, accented by the darker streaks of cloud. A breeze carried Grantaire’s breath away with it. 

With Grantaire giving no reply to his gesture, Enjolras gathered his spoils and made his way closer. He revealed his results triumphantly, and Grantaire was forced to give apology for ever doubting him. He couldn’t help the fondness that must have crossed his face, though Enjolras didn’t seem to notice it. 

“What is it you’ve been looking at, hiding over here as you were?” Enjolras asked, satisfied by Grantaire’s admittance of underestimation. He moved to join him on the rock, and Grantaire leaned in ever so slightly towards the warmth. 

“See those tall clouds in the North? I have been watching their advance.” It offered a convenient excuse, though Grantaire had studied them easily enough on their arrival. “That storm will reach us by morning.” Enjolras moved closer still to see where he pointed, the stray hairs tickling Grantaire’s side. 

“Will it be a large storm?” He asked. The clouds seemed to indicate it, continuously building themselves higher in a slow, churning motion.

“Large enough, I will likely spend the next few nights in the watch room.” Neither of them said anything to that. As they had still not acknowledged their strange sleeping arrangement, there was not much to say. Enjolras stood. 

“Let us head back then, so we have time to move things about before the rain.” Enjolras said. “Do we continue this way?” 

Grantaire, until that moment, had forgotten about the little boat. It was not much further along in the direction Enjolras pointed, and he had not planned for it. He did his best to not seem to eager to pull him away.

“There is no easy path that way.” Grantaire lied. It had been a good day, he did not wish to ruin it with the reminder of secrets. He carried those of three people with him now, he would avoid more if he could. Enjolras had no way of knowing otherwise, so he did not question him.

They turned back, and retreated with the advance of the water. Enjolras did not ask for translations this time, instead remaining far quieter. It was not long before they were depositing their findings in the house, and Grantaire was watching the darkening sky from the window. 

They wordlessly moved some of the blankets and candles for Grantaire to take with him. He did not suggest that Enjolras join him in the watch room, as he would have no good reason for it. There was a sudden awkwardness between them, which he had thought they long since escaped. He did not know how to be free of it now.

“I will see you tomorrow.” He said. It was not so long a time, he did not know why he felt so strange about it. 

“Next morning I will get the tea started before you come down.” Enjolras gave as reply. They nodded to each other, but still Grantaire could not bring himself to move. He would be but one building away, they had no good reason be so hesitant of the distance. They stood immobile, Grantaire before the door, and Enjolras before the fire.

The sound of thunder, though still quite far off, pulled both of their attentions to the window. Grantaire listened to it with some trepidation, knowing that he could not put off his departure much longer. 

“Goodbye then.” He said finally, inclining his head to Enjolras, who had wrapped his arms around his middle. 

“Goodnight.” He replied, forcing Grantaire to finally open the door. He paused only a second longer before stepping out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having difficulty dedicating the same time to this fic with all the other stuff on my plate rn, so apologies in advance if updates and corrections are a little slower


	15. Key Pieces

Grantaire woke to some large sound, jolting him to attention with a speeding heart and blurry eyes. His immediate reaction was to turn to Enjolras, assuming he had been woken by another one of his nightmares. It took Grantaire a few seconds of confusion to recall why he had nothing but cold, dark floor beside him. Grantaire had not grown more used to Enjolras’s absence in the few days since he’d moved back to the tower. He had spent years worth of nights alone, but hardly a fortnight of sharing his bed and he suddenly felt colder alone than the stones had any responsibility for.

He did not let himself process long, knowing whatever loud noise woke him was in need of investigation. The wind screaming through the cracks in the tower made sound enough, and Grantaire struggled to light a candle before making his way up the stairs. There was some continued sound, a thumping coming from the lantern. Grantaire’s nerves increased and he quickened his step. He had just nearly reached the top when his candle was extinguished by a violent wind.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, winds and low light increasing the difficulty, but when they did he realized that one of the two doors into the widow’s walk had blown open. It led way for rain and wind to fill the room, which had extinguished the lantern and sent the mirror spinning. It was the source of noise and wind both. 

This was the type of storm Grantaire would expect a ship to wreck in, so it was with no little haste that he ran to check the door. The latch had been broken by the force, and he could not hold it closed and fix the light at the same time. 

An idea came, as he attempted to force the door to latch. He released it, nearly getting blown back by the force of the winds, and sprinted down the dark stairs.

There was a chest Grantaire used to keep the alcohol in the watch room. He imagined it had been intended for valuables, the tower being a far more secure place to hide them than the house, but Grantaire had always found his purpose more helpful. He prayed it would be equally helpful now. 

It was the fourth night of the storm. The clouds had moved in just before morning on that first night, and had been nearly relentless since. There were moments of only rain falling straight to the earth in a steady drum, but for most the days it had been strong winds sending raindrops like needles against all that stood in it. It was that weather that he had to stop from reaching the interior of the lantern.

“Grantaire? Grantaire is there something wrong?” Enjolras’s voice called from further down the stairs. Grantaire felt relief at the sound.

“Enjolras!” He called breathlessly. “Your timing is spectacular. Come, I need to carry this to the top floor.”

Enjolras entered, still fumbling somewhat on the uneven stairs in the dark. It took him only a moment to realize what Grantaire was trying to move in the low light, moving over to grab part of the chest. They heaved it out onto the stairwell before Grantaire managed to give some explanation. 

“One of the doors blew open,” He said, though was nearly cut off by his own shout of surprise. He stumbled, as he was walking backwards in the dark, and hit his elbow hard. The sudden level change threw Enjolras off balance as well, though he did not fall. 

Grantaire cursed in a colorful mix of languages that would have horrified the nuns and Papa both, getting back on to his feet as quickly as he could manage. With a final heave, they reached the top of the stairs. He pulled the chest up into the room, throwing it onto the floor and running to close the door once again. The wind pushed against him strongly, but Enjolras slid the chest up against the base as he held it closed. 

With the wind and noise of the storm muffled by the door, they could step back and let their thoughts return to them. They watched as the door thudded against the chest repeatedly, but was not able to open enough to let in more than a loud whistling. 

Grantaire waited no moment past that confirmation to return to the light and mirror. He positioned the latter first, so as not to blind them both once it was lit, then ignited the wick. He took a deep sigh of relief as the light sputtered back in to existence, piercing through the rain ahead of it.

“I am glad that worked.” Enjolras said, breathing hard. 

“As am I.” Grantaire replied. He turned to look at him. “How did you know to come up? You couldn’t have heard the door from where you were.”

“I saw the light go out from the window. I came to see what went wrong.” 

He was still in his nightshirt, though it was nearly soaked through. Grantaire supposed he had to look much the same. The wind still whistled with restrained force through the gap left by the door.

“You were not sleeping?” He could not see Enjolras well, in the low light, but he could see the movement as he turned away. 

“I have been sleeping very fitfully. I think it all the noise, and, well,” Grantaire could still not decipher his expression. “The silence.” He finished.

Grantaire was unsure what to say. He was reluctant to admit his own recent difficulties with sleeping, for the connection that would force them to draw. His space for speaking was filled with the thudding of the door against the chest, which Grantaire willingly turned to instead. 

“I suppose with this I am unlikely to sleep either.” He looked to Enjolras. “I have the chess set with me downstairs, should you wish to play a game.” 

“Candles too, I hope? I can hardly see.” 

“Perhaps that is my strategy.” He teased. “I have candles, yes.” He added, when Enjolras did not seem eased. 

They made their way back down carefully, Grantaire’s arm still smarting. When they had lit a candle he turned to see a large red mark on it, which he was certain would bruise. He turned his attention to his companion soon after.

“Which side of the board?” He asked Enjolras, as he sketched it out with the pastels he kept in the room. 

“This knight is a favorite of mine, I will choose him.” Enjolras said, picking up the piece in question.

“I think you will have a difficult game, if you value the knight more than the king.” Grantaire had meant it as a casual comment, but he saw something ignite in Enjolras’s eyes at the words. 

“That is what you think.” He said, some idea clearly having just been sparked. Grantaire thought better than to ask, and let him make the first move. 

The game went horribly. Well, for Grataire it went quite well, but the win could hardly count for much when he had conquered someone so visibly not trying. Enjolras had clearly settled into making some bizarre point with the game, so Grantaire had him in check in hardly enough moves to pass the time of one roll of thunder. 

“Oh no, we have lost our king, whatever shall we do.” Enjolras said blandly as Grantaire swept across the board to take the it, facing no resistance from the other pieces.

“Have the pawns form a republic, no doubt.” He sighed in exasperation. Grantaire reached for Enjolras’s remaining pieces. “I will reset the board.” They were pulled from his reach.

“No.” Enjolras said, taking the knight into his hand. Grantaire paused, confused by this bizarre strategy. Enjolras only gave his usual humorous glint. 

“What do you mean, no? That game’s lost.” Grantaire said, gesticulating towards the board to emphasize his confusion. 

“I think not.” Enjolras turned the piece over in his hand. “My other pieces can carry it well.”

“Carry what, Enjolras? Are you such a sore loser as this? I won the game.” He smiled, clearly taking pleasure from Grantaire’s good-natured annoyance. 

“Why not let my pieces take out your king and queen, have it all done with. They can start a free nation.” Grantaire shook his head with a grin he did his best to bite back. 

“Make up your own republican game,” Grantaire said, reaching for the piece again. “Chess already has its rules.” Enjolras’s obstinance did not cease. 

“Say what you will, but this knight is with me now. He no longer answers to a monarchy.” He held it out of Grantaire’s reach, long arms providing a frustrating advantage. “Do you have that wood bird? It could be a symbolic gesture of peace between the two sides.” 

“Games of peace have never quite occupied man with the same fervor.” Enjolras continued to resist him playfully. “You are insufferable. I will not play these childish games.” He said. A second later, as he very much would, he lunged for Enjolras’s hand. 

Enjolras tipped backwards to maintain his hands distance, and Grantaire was forced to follow him across the board in pursuit. Chess pieces, though most thankfully having been moved to the side in their imprisonment, scattered as the two fell back. Grantaire’s own weight pushed them both all the way to the floor. Enjolras, pinned, was helpless to keep Grantaire from taking back the Knight. 

“Aha!” He exclaimed, holding the trophy in his hand. They both shook with giddy laughter. “I am triumphant both on the board and off.” 

“I am forced to forfeit.” Enjolras admitted, laughter light and airy. Their foreheads tilted together as the convulsions continued to shake them. 

It took Grantaire some moments to realize the nature of their position, he between Enjolras’s legs with one arm pinning him by the chest. His eyes had closed with his laughing, and he was then forced to open them to see Enjolras staring up at him, smiling wide. 

The position was not the most comfortable arrangement, his arm awkwardly caged between them. His hand slid slowly from Enjolras’s chest to the floor just beside, supporting their faces only inches apart. He saw the realization on Enjolras’s face as well, the fading smile, eyes turning down. 

“Perhaps the game of war comes less easily to me now.” Enjolras said. Grantaire could see the lids of his eyes fluttering indecisively.

“I do not mistake lack of intent for lack of skill.” Grantaire replied. “I am sure we would find me weak against your true capabilities.” Speaking itself felt like a dangerous act, a battle in its own. Their breath mixed, and both smiles had faded from their faces.

“You are many things, Grantaire.” The words were quiet. “I would not list weak among them.” 

There was a moment, unbidden, when Grantaire stared down at him with complete openness. He felt weighed down, as if Enjolras’s own immobile hands were pulling him closer. He had no memory of bidding his body to movement, but became absently aware of a decreasing distance between them.

Grantaire pulled himself back sharply, and Enjolras scrambled to his feet with equal speed. There was no way Grantaire could disguise what his intent in that moment had been, no brotherly explanation for that second he’d moved closer. He stared up at Enjolras fearfully, waiting for reaction.

“I’m sorry,” he said, swaying on to his good leg. His eyes were wide. “If there has been some misunderstanding-“ 

“I shouldn’t have acted so carelessly-“ Grantaire cut in, though Enjolras was already speaking over him.

“It was a mistake-” 

“I don’t know what I was thinking-“

“Forgive me-”

They both fell silent again, their overlapping words no longer making sense. They watched each other in horror of what had almost occurred, and Grantaire felt his soul sinking further with every second that passed without word. Silence was the worst of all companions Grantaire could have asked for, leaving him with no distraction from the tumultuous thoughts tearing through his mind. 

“I can,” Enjolras said haltingly. Grantaire could not bring himself to inquire at the end of that statement. Enjolras revised a moment later, voice shaking and eyes wide. “I should leave you.” 

He did not wait for any response before taking off, half stumbling down the stairs. He did not know if he would have any reply to offer, other than watching his departure with an anguished heart. Grantaire, after some minutes, heard the door at the base swing open and closed again. The wind screamed out where he could not. 

By the light of the candle, he could see the tragic picture he in this state made. Chess pieces created a scattered orbit around where he sat, and the pastel of the board had smudged into his pant legs. His elbow was slowly reaching a new acquaintance with the color purple, though that pain paled in comparison of the cold mix of panic and sadness that had latched itself into his throat. The knight offered no comfort, biting into his hand as he stared blankly at the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best to bring some Drama™ in, though I always have trouble writing any sense of urgency. Also I now have 11 more songs that I pretend are the indie soundtrack for this fic


	16. Perception's Sight of Peace

That morning the sky was cursedly calm. It was not yet fully cleared, the storm only having just passed on to the west and were therefore still visible. The blue was still spotted with clouds of ranging sizes and forms, but the rains and wind had departed well enough for it to be visible. The lightness required no beacon to guide sailors across its seas, and the tower itself required no supervision. A misleading peace. 

This punishment was long deserved, he thought. Grantaire had let himself be far more careless than he could afford, foolishly entertaining the idea of their habits being lasting. He had let himself ease into a familiarity that he had been so careful to avoid with others, and was now violently reminded of why he could never allow himself that luxury.

Grantaire had one easement, though it could hardly be considered such: Enjolras was a fugitive, so he could not take any claim to the police. He was safe from any formal report at least, though there was nothing to stop Enjolras from simply talking. Grantaire knew Enjolras, and could not imagine him lowering himself to petty gossip for the sake of it. Grantaire did not know how much he was willing to risk on that knowledge. 

He spent as long a time as he could up in the tower, following the large clouds slowly being pushed inland. Grantaire had watched as the sky slowly lightened, and the ocean faded from black to grey. He pressed his forehead into his knees, thinking obsessively of what awaited him when he finally forced himself down those stairs. He would have to face it eventually, smoke from the chimney told him Enjolras had not escaped so far as that. 

Despite his nauseating fear, Grantaire was left with no alternative but to descend. The time had gone long enough that there was little excuse he could use. Enjolras knew well enough by now the efforts Grantaire needed to make each day, and he too could see the clearing sky. Grantaire had nowhere to run, as Enjolras had taken that practice upon himself, and he could not hide in this tower for an eternity. 

Eventually, Grantaire did pull himself to his feet and walk into the stairwell. He could not say what succeeded in convincing him, only that his body chose that moment to make it’s departure. Each downward step felt as if he were making the descent into hell itself, he half expected his feet to burn in warning, though perhaps he would prefer a fiery lake to what more likely lay at the bottom. 

A moment of vertigo, more from his nerves than the height, forced him to take a rest against the stones. He had not slept, and the entirety of the night had been spent worrying himself into oblivion. He felt frail, though he had no illness. The angel watched him from the stones above, and Grantaire could not bring himself to look at it. 

Grantaire had spent many unhappy days on this land, but he was not sure his little house had ever seemed so unwelcoming as it did in that moment. The movements were not controlled by Grantaire himself, but rather his muscles succumbed to a numb routine to pull him down towards the house. Only his hand seemed unwilling to obey his momentum, reluctantly being pried from each leverage it used to slow down his journey.

It was equally resistant to pushing open the final door, leaving Grantaire to stare at it in fearful silence before he could force it into motion. The second he passed under that doorway he would be forced to face the actions that still felt somewhat dreamlike. He was unsure if he was ready to handle them as reality.

Enjolras was sat stiffly in the chair, fully dressed when Grantaire finally pushed the door open. He had his hair tied back and the overcoat on, looking more as if he was a guest who had just stopped in than an unofficial tenant that had been residing there for several weeks. He had been studying his hands intently, and while he glanced up at Grantaire’s entrance he looked away quickly enough. The refusal to make any sort of eye contact pained Grantaire further.

“Hello.” He said, though his voice was reedy, with little strength behind it. 

“Grantaire.” The cold reply came a beat too late and served as his only acknowledgement. Enjolras still did not look at him. “I have been thinking.” Another pause, this one pregnant. “And I have come to a conclusion.”

The words were weighed down by something, he could hear it in Enjolras’s voice. He was guarded and cold, but he could not hide the entirety of himself from Grantaire’s trained eye. Grantaire’s hands curled achingly tight at his sides as he leaned against the wall.

“Which is?” 

“I think it is best that I leave.” His voice was even, belying how harshly the words tore through Grantaire’s chest. “I have long overstayed my welcome, I should not impose longer.”

He supposed this was much of what he had expected, though the pretense made a sour anger rise in his throat. They both knew the reason for this suddenly delivered conclusion, and Grantaire wished to be done with the unspoken. 

“You need not handle it so delicately, that is not your usual habit.” He spat as he moved to the window, choosing to be the one now facing away from Enjolras. His voice had taken a sharp edge. “We both know that this is because of last night’s actions.”

“I thought that clear enough.” Enjolras’s voice too had gone hard.

“Why not say your thoughts plainly.” He said, mocking Enjolras’s words from the weeks before. “Are you running away then?”

“Save me your hypocrisy.”

“You misunderstand me. I have only just now found your story of escape believable, let me revel in such closure.” Enjolras stiffened at the mention.

“I would ask you not to throw my greatest moment of weakness in my face.” He said, his cold facade cracking somewhat with anger. Grantaire wished he could ask the same.

“Is that what I am doing?” He was not proud of the immature, insulting manner in which he said it. Enjolras spoke again, voice quivering with emotion.

“And you would ask me to stay, after last night?” The tone was accusatory, already knowing Grantaire’s answer. “Is it running if this is the only option I see before me? If you have another, do enlighten me.”

“I would not ask it of you, no.” He agreed, answering one of Enjolras’s questions. 

“You understand then, why I am leaving?” 

That, of all things Enjolras had said in the conversation thus far, frustrated him the most. It seemed, underneath the anger, that Enjolras still seeked some kind of approval from him. Grantaire could not stand it.

“Do you think,” He asked, though not quite to Enjolras, “God’s judgement is so easily outrun as one’s sins?” Enjolras gave him no answer. He closed his eyes. “Yes, I understand.” He could give him the answer he sought, if nothing more.

Grantaire had wanted to hope, in some small recess of his mind, that their friendship had grown stronger than this. That maybe Enjolras, who defended the poor and championed the despised, would not hate him for what he was behind closed doors. He wished he could explain himself, defend in some way his actions that would cause Enjolras to stay. I

“When do you plan to depart?”

“As soon as I can manage.” Grantaire nodded, moving about the room to collect what he sought. He could feel Enjolras silently watching him as he did.

“Take this with you.” Enjolras looked down at his hands, visibly softening.

“Grantaire, I cannot ask this of you. After everything you have done as I healed.”

“You will need to pay for boarding, if not in this town then the next one over.” He said, continuing to hold the notes in front of him. “Let it at least seem that we parted as friends.” The guarded expression returned.

“That will raise less suspicion, I suppose.” Grantaire nodded, though the words pained him.

Enjolras moved forward to take the money from his hand. They did not touch, but it was the closest they had been since Grantaire’s transgression. The stiff coldness and averted eyes made it a hellish parallel, and he quickly retreated to get a drink. Enjolras eyed the bottle he pulled down sourly, but he did not speak on it. 

“This is how we part then.”

“How else could we? Shall we exchange gestures of affection for us both to misunderstand? I cannot speak for you, but I have learned my lesson, Enjolras.” Enjolras flinched away slightly from the harshness of Grantaire’s words. There was a burn in his throat, though he had yet to down any of the drink.

“Does this cruelty serve you well? You have chased me from your home, Grantaire. Are you satisfied?” Grantaire did not think himself further from that assessment. 

“I think I have made my stance clear enough. If it drives you from here on fast feet, then that is what it must be.” He took a drink, eyes not leaving Enjolras’s face. He still did not leave, and Grantaire felt his anger rise further. “Do you want a kiss goodbye? You said you were leaving, then do so.”

Enjolras, expectedly, did not take him up on the offer. He glared at Grantaire fiercely, a mix of disappointment and anger painting his pale face. He offered Grantaire no words as he moved to the door, pulling it open and slamming it closed again behind him with equal force. The house shook with the effort. Grantaire could see his uneven gait making its way towards the town from the window. He turned away, unwilling to watch more.

He downed the rest of the bottle easily enough, the fire of his frustration and despair growing with the added fuel. He had no knowledge of passing time, only that of the movement from bottle to mouth. He paced too, though his patterns did include long stretches of sitting in absent thought. Grantaire did his best not to think of Enjolras moving farther and farther away with each swig he took.

In a moment of clumsiness, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, taking the few remains of liquid that had been at the bottom with it. Grantaire was little affected by its loss, stepping around the shards to riffle about looking for its successor. He was vaguely aware that some hours had passed, though it was still light enough for his search to be uninhibited. 

Grantaire’s frustration grew as his pursuits revealed no reward. Each of his usual places he found empty, and he eventually realized that he had no other bottles in the house. Enjolras had convinced him not to buy more when they had last been in town, meaning he had now reached the end of his supply. If Grantaire had the other bottle back, he likely would have smashed it again from anger.

He had another chance to drink himself into oblivion with the likelihood that some bottles still remained up in the lighthouse, and he pursued it eagerly. Grantaire did not hesitate long before stumbling out in that direction, seeking any possibility to drown the ghosts of Enjolras’s presence. 

The blessings of a narrow stairwell meant that he could support himself well enough to avoid swaying. By the time he reached the watch room he could hardly walk straight, though he barely noticed it. His attentions rested only on the bottle he triumphantly lifted from the corner where the chest had been.

“I shall escape you yet, treacherous mind of mine.” He mumbled, uncorking it.  
He felt as if Enjolras was watching him with judging eyes even now, though he did his best to shake off the feeling. Enjolras, for all that he seemed one, was no god, and could not see Grantaire’s sins from his distant residence. 

The uneasiness persisted. An intense guilt, misplaced and morphed into paranoia. It drove Grantaire back on to his feet and into the stairwell, as if leaving the watch room would escape it. He stumbled up into the lantern, still trying to escape the unseen judgement. He left from the unblocked door, and let his feet carry him towards the beam.

“How is it you still plague me? I scared you off, didn’t I? You are gone.” He shouted into the open air. He received no reply other than the increasing heat of the light at his back. Grantaire turned his face skyward. “Have I not suffered enough?” He received no reply to that query either. 

His face was wet, though it very well could have been from rain. Grantaire was not in the right mind to notice it. He swayed forward, stomach pressing against the edge of the widow’s walk, his weight pulling him further forward still. He swayed with the gentle breeze.

How, of all things, did love become a sin? What unhappy soul saw two happy with another and thought it worthy of death, of pain? Now even Enjolras thought of him with that reproach. He had not even meant to ruin things this time, he had simply been reminded for why he developed that habit.

The faint sound of shattering brought him somewhat back to himself. The second bottle had slipped from his fingers and hit the ground far below. A long fall, Grantaire thought. He pulled himself back from the edge, though he swayed still.

He moved from the light of the beam, making it just as far as the watch room before letting his legs collapse under him. Grantaire fell to his knees, then back so his weight rested on his shins. The wetness from his eyes could no longer be blamed on raindrops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I experienced THE WORST writers block with this chapter so apologies for the delayed update. Just finished today and will be editing when I can this weekend


	17. Shoreline Soliloquy

He woke to pale sunlight, though he had little framing to tell if it belonged to a new day. Grantaire could have easily passed a full week in that numb state with little awareness, so it was with some hesitation that he thought himself in the day after. His head and arms ached from the drink and strange position he’d let himself collapse in, and his tongue was heavy with both the bitter taste of hangover and the bitter words he had said as Enjolras departed.

The floor was cold, painfully so. It was funny, he thought, that in all the time he’d been unhappily in this room while Enjolras had the bed, he would return to it of his own volition now there was no stranger to give it to. Perhaps he had simply fallen into the habit of it, or perhaps his subconscious had decided to make the cool stone his cruel reminder.

Grantaire sat up, rubbing his eyes to dispel the sleep that still lay there. He was grateful for the numbness in that it let him think with little reaction. Enjolras was well and truly gone, and had been for at least a full days distance. Grantaire needed no clearer sign that he was the only one who suffered from the separation, and he did his best to ignore the sad resignation that came with it.

The lighthouse was easy enough to check over, still lit from before. He had been careless in the past few days, with all the distraction and dramatics they had brought. It was a waste of good oil, just as it had all been a waste of Grantaire’s time. Unfortunately he could not claim the same price from Enjolras that the oil would call from him.

It was while cleaning the mirror that he paused. It was not often Grantaire saw his reflection, and for the first few moments he felt an unsettling disconnect from it. Dark and disheveled, looking more like the sort of monster Mrs. Millea often titled him as than any human. This was the strange, feral creature he took the shape of. This is what haunted itself, alone in this lighthouse, for all its life. He turned the mirror back to the light, as if the thought too would be turned away.

He would not go in to town, for fear of running into Enjolras and being accused of pursuing him, so he was left without his usual entertainment in such times. The last bottle lay shattered at the base of the lighthouse, leaving hidden dangers strewn among the grasses. There was little to be done to clear them, and littler motivation to try. He set to cleaning the shards on the floor of his house for lack of anything better to do. He itched for its lost contents, and the relief they would bring. 

That task too seemed to take him hardly any time at all. Grantaire was unsure if he had as much unused time before Enjolras’s arrival, but he was certainly more aware of it now. He had no one to play chess, make conversation with, or answer an endless stream of questions to. It seemed that he could not make a single move, take a single breath, without intensely feeling the hole Enjolras’s had left in his life. The experience was endlessly frustrating.

Grantaire rubbed his face again, moving from his eyes to press his temples as if that would dispel his ailments. The pressure did little to alleviate the pain there, as he could have predicted. There was still comfort in meaningless tasks, or at least Grantaire hoped there was. That was all he had to fill his time, after all.

If the world were fair, Grantaire would face no difficulty moving on and forgetting him. Enjolras had, easily enough. Grantaire had seen him walk from the house without sparing a look back. If only he could treat their parting as trivially. Why could he not fall back into his routines from before the insurgent interruption washed up on his shores, and why was he doomed to suffer for it where Enjolras did not.

He blamed his heart, that traitorous organ, for his inability to let the memory pass. It ached incessantly and with a severity that had he not known the cause, he might have called on Joly to investigate. He had been comfortable to love Enjolras from a short distance, that small stretch across the room or between them on the bed. He had been no less unattainable, but it had felt well enough to have him near. 

The loss of a friend haunted him as well as whatever other title he could afford Enjolras. They had been that before Grantaire loved him, as well as during. Perhaps it was a torture to imagine if a friend’s parting would hurt him so, knowing had they only been friends there would have been no cause for him to leave.

Loneliness was a cold companion, and Grantaire soon grew restless to escape it’s grip. He decided to walk the shore, as that would take him from the house. It had been longer than he often gave himself after a storm, most things likely having been washed away again by the tide. Yet another exercise in futile distraction, he knew, but even the chance of something to do was a tempting suggestion.

The beach offered little greeting when he made his way to it, his feet carrying him quickly from the house and its memories. The grey, lifeless stone was as it always was, and the sky had turned silver to match. As he had expected, there was little to find on the sand save for eaten out shells and seaweed. Yet another goal of the day made meaningless. The rocks and sand made their sounds of movement under each step, and the gulls cried out overhead.

Each task seemed too easy to fill, too short an activity. Grantaire had no drink or work to push away his thoughts, so even as he walked they began to plague him. Memories of Enjolras’ horrified expression, of his coldness and departure. How easy it was to destroy all they had grown between them with a single act. He stopped abruptly, bending to take a rock from the sand and hurl it into the waves. This too did nothing.

His boot tips were lightly kissed by the edge of the water as he looked out on it to where he had thrown the stone. No sight of animals or acknowledgement of his existence was given by the waves, leaving him to stand silent and even lonelier than before. He did his best to let peace come, though he felt the urge to simply walk into the water and let the cold force it on him as he had done before. 

He knew well enough where he stood. As much as a strong storm can change the appearance of a beach, Grantaire had spent enough time walking it to know where he was. He doubted he should ever forget the place he had first found Enjolras. The ocean had no curse to bestow this time, or at least none that Grantaire could see on the sand. He could do without any more unknowns.

He stepped forward then, letting the cold water pool around his ankles. It would soak through his boots soon enough, though at that moment it was only a cool pressure of water swirling around them. If only life were as sure as the tides moving that water, he thought. Each high and low had the confident assurance that the other would soon return. What a relief it must be to the sands to have that consistency. How envious he was of it all.

If a human’s time was so evenly regulated, something would happen now that he stood where it had all began. There would be an event or sign that would give him closure, or at least give all the time they’d spent together some sort of meaning. Grantaire knew he had no power in it, but the ocean owed nothing less, he thought.

There was a brief, ridiculous moment where Grantaire let himself wait. He waited as if Enjolras would appear behind him and call his name with a series of apologies and declarations. He closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to collapse in on himself. Ridiculous.

He turned back, of course seeing no Enjolras having miraculously appeared, and continued his walk down the beach. It wasn’t long until he reached the boat, though he hardly gave it a second glance. The next storm could carry it away for all he minded. He could not care enough to find out what he could get for it in town. It would be better if the offending object would just leave his life for good. Its companion had.

Grantaire stuttered to a halt again, blinking quickly. He had no right to these dramatics, he thought. Enjolras had left, that was that. He should not feel as if he had taken a blow to the chest, and he would not let himself shed any more tears. This ache had no power over him, and if the said it enough perhaps that statement would turn true.

Perhaps pain was all that love was. It would make sense, he supposed. Papa had always told him that God loved him, and he now finally had the understanding to realize it. He thought of Candide, too, and his useless and tormented pursuit of love. Literature was wrought with ill-fated devotion, perhaps they shared a message Grantaire had simply ignored in his readings: Love itself was a tragedy, for all that it made one believe.

How much feeling could Grantaire waste on this, before he ran out? Hardly a day had passed and he was exhausted by his own repetitive lamentations. Be it the wrath of God or the consequences to his own mistakes, he did not want to spend any more time on it.

The fire had long gone out in his house, so he relit it upon his arrival. He pretended the action made him feel any warmer. Grantaire sorely missed his drink, though that had no current remedy. Would Enjolras be angry to know how much he wished to drink his presence away? He supposed it made no difference.

He tried to distract himself further, rereading letters from Cosette and looking through drawings he had left on the papers. So many questions he’d left unanswered, stories he’d left untold. Cosette did not deserve a brother such as him, unable to hold any that he cared for close in his life without destroying it. He would send more letters, at least. In ink perhaps he could seek reparations.

Grantaire continued to restrain his dramatics. He’d indulged himself in the tower before, though melancholy had long been his preferred route. He would let him slip into a softer contemplation, if he could so choose. Let him think of it philosophically, rather than be plagued by these crude emotions.

A strange urge struck him, and he let himself follow it. The bag was easy enough to find, having been brought down with him earlier, and it was just as easy to pull what he wanted from it. He moved to the bed, hands already moving. Grantaire had no explanation for why this motivation had suddenly struck, but he let it go to work with little protest.

This too took far less time than expected, and Grantaire was left staring at the finished product in his hands. It was the last piece of the chess set, the king, complete in his design. He no longer sat faceless on his throne, those few final carvings finishing him with a strange sense of finality. Grantaire had finished something, finally, though it would never be played. A meaningless kind of victory.

He placed it back with the others, resting alongside the knight. He would never have guessed, that when he first decided to make the wood chip into that figure, how many issues it would cause. His careless creation had lead to the destruction of he and Enjolras’ relationship. Had he known that then, he would have cast the wood into the sea without a second glance.

“I suppose that is my ending,” He said, staring at it’s little face. “You and I, alone again. That is where the tides have left us.” He returned it to the bag, leaning back against the wall with closed eyes. How cruelly circular his tides had chosen to make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if I just ended it here, with this short interlude of meaningless rambles I wrote instead of editing


	18. Past Tense

There is nothing like the ocean to remind someone of how little a life they lead in the great scale of the world. Stretching on for incomprehensible lengths, holding endless mysteries and dangerous in its depths, it makes a formidable image. Even its seeming end in the horizon is only a subjective limit, an illusion of measurability in terms the average mind could understand. How easy it would be to vanish in its immensity.

Grantaire knew the ocean did end, eventually. The Americas were somewhere across the expanse, though Grantaire would not try to understand how far something had to be to go so long undiscovered. In all his life he had never been on a boat journey so long as that, and he wasn’t all that sure the endless sight of nothingness around him would not drive him mad. He hoped the journey was treating Enjolras well at least.

This day too was grey, though that in itself was not unusual. The clouds were slow-moving and shadowed, suggesting some rain by late afternoon. Grantaire ignored them for the sea, watching the whitecaps as they came and went across the surface. The breeze made his position on the widow’s walk cold, but it was not strong enough to bring him danger of falling. The movement of the waves to the shore he matched his breathing to, keeping it at an even sway. He let himself sit, soaked through with melancholy. This, too, he supposed, was not unusual.

His feelings were no more orderly than they had been the day before. The consuming multitude of emotions had sent him into the sort of disarray that the ocean’s surface was met with during a great storm. Despite this, he felt as he imagined a fish would, deep beneath the chaos and only watching it occur. It was all nonsense, thinking back on it. Confused ramblings of an emotional alcoholic, how suited that he should be the only one to hear it. 

Grantaire did not believe in ghosts. They were one of the many things he had given no faith to. Mrs. Millea had told him stories of hauntings the tower supposedly held, anything from a viking soldier to a keeper’s wife who had thrown herself from the widow’s walk. He was not sure if she had meant them all as a threat or promise of company, but neither had proved very true. He could see, perhaps, how someone in their lonesome watch of this tower may create visions of their mind to feel less isolated, but he had not yet found that state of mind. 

In truth Grantaire did not doubt that these walls held memories, only that they made themselves so visible. If anyone should ask, he would insist that the tower was haunted by no morose figures other than himself. It was a stance that he held firmly, save the two instances that he had been nearly brought to question it: once, during a large storm when he could have sworn he saw someone silhouetted by lightning outside the glass of the lantern, and again in that moment when a voice spoke out from behind him.

“Grantaire?”

He nearly fell from his position in surprise, scrambling to his feet. His ears had not lied and there was indeed a person there, though it was the last of all people he would have expected. Grantaire could hardly believe the sight of him, standing in the doorway to the lantern with his hair loose and pulling to the right with the breeze. He was pale enough to be a ghost himself, and Grantaire nearly let himself think it possible.

“Enjolras?” He stepped forward, but Enjolras immediately put a cautioning hand up between them. Grantaire, chastised, took a step back to where he had been with eyes averted. “Forgive me. Have you forgotten something?”

He hoped to collapse in on himself, to flee. He did not want to know what Enjolras had returned for, as it certainly wasn’t himself. All the bitterness and panic that he had quelled from that day surged back into his throat, ready to spring forth and protect him from whatever painful words Enjolras had to offer.

“Did you want me to leave?” 

Not a second back and the questions had returned, still unwarranted and dangerous. It was the nearest he could get to proof that this was not some mental image of the man that Grantaire had projected into seeing.

The question was almost less expected than Enjolras’s presence there, and startled him no less. The bitterness retreated, though the panic only increased. Enjolras awaited a reply, though Grantaire felt certain he must have misheard him.

“What?” He shivered slightly from the breeze, the sound of the ocean’s movements still filling the silence. Enjolras had the sort of determined look that he had whenever he insisted on getting the answer for something, speaking again in a sort of shaky command.

“I must know. Did you want me to leave?” 

Grantaire could not tell what he was supposed to answer. What was he to say, when asked so blankly? He had hardly gotten past the shock of Enjolras reappearing at all. There was no way or time to gauge what Enjolras’s goal with that question might be, and even less to craft his answer to it. There was a desperate edge to Enjolras’ words, though desperate for what he had no assurance.

What could Enjolras want to know from him, or that he must know from him, to use Enjolras’ wording. Grantaire had nothing to offer, his heart heavy with the pain their few days distance had caused. If Enjolras sought to see the effects of his departure, Grantaire did not think himself capable of concealing them. He was sure the shock and pain were written on his face the moment he had seen Enjolras again. He was caught with no reply but the truth, forced from his lips only by Enjolras’s command for answer.

“Of course not,” Grantaire said, for it was all he could say. “How could you think I would?”

His words caused Enjolras’s shoulders to drop and him to release a shaky breath. Grantaire received the reaction with confused alarm, unsure of what he was meant to do. His companion swayed, looking near on the brink of collapsing, though he would not dare take another step forward to offer assistance. Grantaire could not bring himself to move. 

“How could I think it?” Enjolras spoke suddenly and fiercely, eyes refocusing after his moment of haze onto Grantaire with a harsh intensity. “Grantaire, you nearly chased me from your home!” 

Grantaire supposed he should no longer be surprised, with the course that morning had taken, though the sudden change in tone startled him. It was an accusation that, while merited, Grantaire did not appreciate. He well remembered Enjolras making the offer to leave before he had said much of anything, and certainly before any chasing on his part. He would not be held solely responsible for the nature of their parting.

“You wanted to leave, forgive me for easing the blow on myself.” He said, indignation rising. 

Enjolras seemed to have a ready, angry reply, but he caught himself before fulling saying it. Grantaire did not think he appreciated the hesitation, as each second without reply left Grantaire more unsure than the last. Enjolras pushed a hand through the curls that had blown into his face, a slight tremor visible in his left hand as he moved the shoulder. It seemed as if he were about to make one of his speeches, though Grantaire hardly thought this the time.

“You make no sense, none of our parting did.” He said finally. “I know you, Grantaire, but there was not one moment of our argument that did not seem wholly contrary to your character. I had suggested I leave you first, what blow was there to ease? And now you say you did not want me to leave at all?” 

Grantaire too was now confused. By the strange nature of Enjolras’s wording it hardly seemed they spoke of the same scene. They seemed to be speaking a great deal and yet hardly communicating anything to each other. He could not ask Enjolras to repeat it, but he felt no shame in declaring his disorientation.

“I am not following you.” He said. “Do you mean to say that even before I came down, your convictions rested on the concept that I wanted you gone?” A strange conclusion to draw, considering the offense. 

Clearly Grantaire had given the city too many years distance, as he did not at all understand what Enjolras referred to. A tense silence descended that Grantaire had no capabilities to fill. Neither was quite able of meeting the other’s eye, giving the entire scene an intense discomfort. When Enjolras spoke again, Grantaire was glad despite the sudden subject change.

“Do you remember when you said to me that I had not told you everything?” Grantaire could hardly have forgotten, with the boat so often on his mind.

“I recall.” 

“There was someone I met on my journey.” Enjolras began. “He was Polish in origin, though he had spent some time in France that we could understand one another well enough. Of all the people on that boat, he was the only one I would attempt to call friend.” There was a pause. “His name was Feuilly.” Grantaire blinked at this sudden tangent.

Grantaire hoped this was not some petty revenge. It would be a strange one, he would admit, but many in history had been more creative in their hatred. Making the journey back to his home only to explain what a true friend to him took the shape of, though, he knew of no precedent for. He noticed, faintly, that Enjolras’s hands were shaking. The minute movements were hardly visible, though with focus the tremors made themselves obvious.

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked, feeling chilled.

The man’s name had clearly been the easier half of that story to tell, as Enjolras pressed his left wrist to his ribs as a sign of nervousness. Grantaire continued to await whatever words he had to say, though he could not predict what they may be. His stomach clenched uneasily, and he wondered if Enjolras was equally disturbed.

“I do not form connections easily.” Enjolras said, decisive despite his visible hesitation. “Hardly ever, to be more descriptive, though I doubt you care to hear it. I needed no love but that of my country, and never much cared to seek it out.” He had lost Grantaire yet again, though he did his best to maintain a neutral expression. “Feuilly was kind and good, and shared many of the ideologies that I desperately wanted to still believe in. It was a comfort, to see someone who had struggled and yet still shared that vision.” 

A comfort Grantaire had certainly not offered, he knew. What a man this Feuilly must have been, to have seen the world and still believed in it. Grantaire had hardly thought any such person existed, save perhaps his Papa. He listened still as Enjolras spoke, though he felt his mouth sour.

“We grew close on the journey, though perhaps my inexperience aided my misunderstanding both then and now.” Enjolras had a strange look about him, that Grantaire might almost have called fear. “I thought the signals clear, and I had some feeling for him, so I made my attempt not long before the end of the journey.”

The words were vague, rather intentionally so, but they quickly dispelled all the other thoughts he had previously held. Grantaire’s mind reeled, thrown into chaos like a tree under storm.. How was he to understand what Enjolras was saying, other than the conclusion he had come to? He could form no reply to the suggested meaning, though Enjolras seemed to need some encouragement to continue.

“I imagine the young man did not take it well.” Grantaire said carefully.

“He firmly declined, and told me the danger such actions held on the shores we could see from the decks.” A hefty realization, Grantaire knew from experience. Such actions were always unsafe, but the Parisian community created a misleadingly calm illusion. “I do not think he meant it as a threat, but in my state I could take it as little else. In the night I unroped the boat used to make landings and set off towards the beacon of a lighthouse. I meant to land readily and escape whatever unwanted attention I had drawn to myself, for both my crimes.”

Had he been less overwhelmed, Grantaire thought he may have cried out in triumph to finally have his answer. He supposed this story was less exciting than some of the conclusions he’d let himself come to, though it still managed to be the least expected. Enjolras had no way to know that Grantaire already knew of the boat, so its inclusion made him wonder if he was indeed speaking the truth. The rest of the story fell easily enough in to place for him, now that one hole had been filled.

“Then the storm capsized your little boat not far from shore.” He did not ask it, for he already knew the answer. Grantaire still felt too shocked to react further. He paid little attention to what expressions Enjolras gave, staring rather fixedly at a nonexistent spot in his mind as if that would help him organize it.

“Yes. The paddle got stuck between some rocks, or at least that’s what I think occurred, and the jarring force did the damage to my shoulder. I hit the side and was thrown overboard, the pain and cold making me quickly lose consciousness. I remember nothing else.” 

The story was interesting, certainly, and it did not seem to be a lie. Grantaire wondered if it was only that he wanted to believe its truth that he let himself accept that, but pushed the thought away easily enough. His mind had snagged on another detail, which he was curious enough to pursue. It had indirectly involved him, after all.

“Do you think that man, Feuilly you said, was the one that lead the Inspector here?”

“I should like to think not. I imagine my disappearance was suspicious for a great many other reasons. I did not endear myself to the larger part of the crew, wanting to keep distance.”

“He may well have.” Grantaire persisted. For all that Enjolras seemed to admire the man, good politics did not make a saint. Someone had to have mentioned the strange disappearance to the wrong sort of people. 

“You did not turn me over to the police after the arrival of the Inspector, I would like to imagine he would not either.” There was a sad sort of half smile then, though it was not meant for him. 

“Did you love him?” He asked, giving voice to the dark thoughts in the back of his head. 

Was this what Enjolras meant to confess to him, that they could remain as friends because he would forever pine after another? Grantaire had no shared ideologies or inherent goodness to offer, it made sense that Enjolras would have easily found someone better than him. The dangerous spiral, luckily, did not build up enough momentum before it was cut off by Enjolras’s answer.

“Can I know, from only two points of reference?” His eyes met Grantaire’s then, though he quickly looked away again. “No. I cared for him, but I know well enough now that those are not the same thing.” 

Grantaire was breathless. There had been more than an insinuation there of things he could not be expected to believe. Words would not form, and the few that did he lacked the bravery to say aloud. Enjolras took the silence as an opportunity to speak again.

“Grantaire, above all else I care for you as a friend. I would wish to return to that, if I could.” He could not bring himself to think clearly enough to process the words.

“I care for you as a friend as well.” He said instead of what his mind half shouted at him. Enjolras took that for the answer it was before continuing.

“I am content for that to be all that we are, only I do not wish to lose you. I have lost enough friends, I would keep one, where I can.” He was still shaking, somewhat. “I have told you everything so you can make this decision with clear eyes.”

Grantaire was struck with clarity then, though it was not from Enjolras’s words of friendship. It was rather the sight of him, standing stiff and afraid in the frame of the doorway that jogged a small piece of his memory. Grantaire thought, then, of how Enjolras had described himself standing in the window of the Corinthe. He had no guns trained to his chest in this instance, but he imagined the sight was similar enough. 

He wanted to reach out, assure Enjolras that he was not alone and that he needn’t be scared. It was an urge Grantaire would not have expected of himself, though he doubted he had ever experienced something so strongly. He would have reached for him in that window, too, he was sure. Grantaire was not a wise enough man to guess what that meant.

He extended a hesitant hand, though Enjolras very nearly flinched away from the movement. His eyes were wide, haunted by hope and fear both. Grantaire did not need bravery for this action, as it felt almost necessary that he do it. Grantaire reached again, as he had to pull Enjolras through the beam of light those weeks before, pausing only just before his hand reached the one Enjolras had still left, limp in the air.

“Do you permit it?” He asked, not sure if he spoke of the contact or of the acceptance it signified. He was given a small smile as his only answer, though it served as more than enough. By some force that was not his own, Grantaire pitched forward and pulled Enjolras into a strong embrace.

Enjolras’s arms wrapped tightly around Grantaire as well. He shed no tears, though Grantaire could feel the emotion well enough in the strong grip he had around him. He was not sure which of them the action brought more comfort, only that it felt intoxicatingly so. Grantaire had no wish to exist anywhere but in that moment.

He likely would have spent an eternity like that, but their conversation was not yet done. They pulled back, after some time, though did not go far. Enjolras, as he had in many of those early mornings, had hold of the front of his shirt as if to keep him near.

“So you are here to stay, then?” He did not bother to disguise the hopefulness in his voice. 

“If you will have me.” Enjolras replied.

“Always.” He said, with a finality he at least could ensure.

It could not be left there, Grantaire knew. Not after Enjolras had spoken so bravely. As glad as he was to see the chance of their status quo returning, he was not sure he would be capable of letting such a thing continue to go unmentioned between them. Enjolras must have seen the decision on his face, as he gave a worried look that finally prompted him into speaking.

“I am grateful to have my friend back, and rather more hesitant to ruin it again so quickly,” He said, seeing Enjolras tense. “But as you have spoken so openly, I feel I should do the same.”

“Do not say it.” Enjolras cut in. “I have not asked this honesty of you. I don’t care to hear it, if it will cause any of the pain the past days’ separation has caused.” Of course it would be this of all things that Enjolras would not ask, not trap him into answering.

“Have we not left enough unsaid?” He said, feeling the exhaustion behind his own words. It had yet to serve them well, it would seem. Grantaire could only hope to steal some of Enjolras’s candor. “Be brave with me.” He said, hardly disguising the begging that it was.

Enjolras did not answer that plea, but his hand tightened in the grip it held on Grantaire’s shirt. The knuckles visibly whitened, and they both stared down at it. Grantaire’s only view was the golden curls parted on the top of Enjolras’s head. He stayed in that pose for a quiet moment before looking up with a humorous, if hesitantly so, look in his eye.

“I will hold you here, at least, should you try to run away from me.” He teased, though Enjolras hardly seemed to feel it. 

“And I you.” He agreed, squeezing Enjolras’s arms where he held them. His palms felt overly warm where they touched, a contrast to the cool surroundings. The air was wet and sharp, a likely precursor to rain which served as yet another reminder that he could not put off his words longer. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding that I can’t fathom how it managed to occur.”

“What is it you mean?” Enjolras asked, clearly not having anticipated this statement.

Grantaire struggled still, not being able to answer readily. It was not easy to release a secret he had kept so long unsaid, even if he knew it would be well received. He had trained himself to silence, and that was a difficult habit to break.

“Do you think that it was you that tried to kiss me, that night?” Enjolras’s brow furrowed.

“I should be quite sure of it, I remember catching myself making the motions well enough.” He said suspiciously. He was likely as confused as Grantaire had been at the start of this conversation. 

“I rather thought the action reversed.” He proceeded delicately, though his voice had pitched itself low enough that the words were not easy to hear. Enjolras’s brow pinched with what Grantaire hoped was not mistrust.

“And what would bring you to that conclusion?”

“Fooling myself into trying would not be too unusual an action. It fits with my past patterns.” There was no dawning realization in Enjolras’s eyes, he seemed to still be waiting for something to be said. Perhaps he had not yet understood what Grantaire was trying to say.

“Has this happened before, then?” Enjolras seemed to sincerely not understand him, though he clearly meant the line to be teasing. Grantaire appreciated the attempt at humor, as the discernable reaction brought some comfort. Enjolras bowed his head slightly in admission. “I am still rather confused.” 

Grantaire felt a flash of boldness then, taking the form in the only way he knew himself capable. Truth from the mouth of a fool, he supposed. The witty response came easily, and he let it leave his lips with the same speed.

“This has been the most confusing time of my life, and I had to explore my young interest in men in the confines of a convent.” 

Enjolras’s eyes sharpened and all humor fell from his face. There was a moment of silence following the words, as Enjolras directed his intense focus on Grantaire alone. He already regretted speaking as Enjolras worked through what he said.

“Speak plainly.” He ordered, clearly unsatisfied with the comedic tone shielding the meaning. Grantaire knew he did not mean it to be intimidating, but the severity of it weakened his resolve.

“I see you as a great friend, as you are. I have not had the privilege of holding many so close to my heart.” 

The words were cowardly, and he could see Enjolras pulling away as soon as he said them, despite having not moved a muscle. He had made a trade for which words he regretted more, and the sight gave him the sort of sickly feeling that always accompanies cowardice. He attempted to swallow it down. If Enjolras could lead a revolution, failed or not, he could force himself to form the words.

“I should make it clear that I hold you closer than most. Than any of them.” He said quietly, meeting Enjolras’s eyes with the last piece of borrowed bravery he had.

Enjolras watched him, searching for the hint that Grantaire was joking still. He let him search, despite how much anxiety the scrutiny caused him. Had Enjolras not held him there firmly, he might have made his attempt at running. The silence before a judgement is a heavy and terrible thing.

“If I attempted to kiss you now, would it end as poorly as it did before?” The breath Grantaire released nearly made him collapse with the force of it. A smile tugged its way onto both their faces.

“I suppose it depends largely on what you consider a bad end. You should have to deal with me reciprocating, for one.” He said, letting himself sway closer. Enjolras had bent himself somewhat, and their foreheads nearly touched.

“A suitable price, I think.” He replied, closing the distance with little effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I'm always behind the idea of Enjolras having a friendship crush of Feuilly.  

> 
> A special thanks to Yarragone for all their help with French to English shenanigans and translations! They've been scattered throughout the chapters, but I wanted to give a shout out here as we've started to near the end.


	19. Quiet Storms

Enjolras did not kiss how Grantaire would have expected. In those fragile moments that he had let his mind wander there, he had always imagined it similar to how he argued. Grantaire had envisioned the sort of fierce intensity and passion that he gave to his beliefs showing itself in acts of romance, but would not consider the reality of it a dissapointment. 

He was not assertive with his motions, rather more delicate and chaste. It seemed as if he was leaving it to Grantaire to lead the exchange, a role he took happily. He brought a hand up to cradle the side of Enjolras’s head, feeling the exhilaration in that action being allowed. Light curls hung through the fingers there as Enjolras tilted his head to meet the contact. 

“I suppose we were both rather foolish.” Enjolras said, momentarily breaking the contact to form the words.

“Hindsight is a plague.” Grantaire agreed, chasing his lips back to continue. 

It was exciting, Grantaire thought, to do kiss so openly. They were so exposed atop the tower, though none would likely be close enough to see it. To embrace in the open air felt strange, freeing and honest. A dangerous sort of imagined invincibility came with it. 

“So you truly thought I left because you tried to kiss me?” Enjolras asked, pulling back a second time. Grantaire did not want to be so easily deterred, but he gave Enjolras a reply knowing he would likely not cease asking without it. 

“Can you blame my mistake? You had hardly spoken to me after that night in the Corinthe.” He said. Enjolras made a dismissive expression.

“I was attempting to understand why my heart had nearly stopped the second you touched me. I told you I was deep in thought.” How strange it was to think of Enjolras struggling too. He doubted, if he had the chance to tell his past self, that he would ever have believed it.

“That did little to help my nerves, though I am flattered to know my drunken self had such an effect.” He said, pitching his voice slow so to draw Enjolras back in. That time was lost, though the present yet wasn't.

They both eagerly returned to their previous activity, adding more energy to it than before. The chastity of the action was fading, their grips on each other tightening enough to pull them closer. A heat seemed to build, along with the suggestion of escalation. For once, he did not mind the unsaid implications of their actions. Grantaire would have moved them flush together had Enjolras not pulled away again.

“What was it you said to me then?”

“Your questions truly are ceaseless.” He sighed in good-natured exasperation. He would do his best to not take offense to his skills of distracting the mind. “If I answer, you must let me ask a question of my own.”

“Of course.” Enjolras nodded, accepting the trade.

Grantaire used his finger to tuck a strand of hair behind Enjolras’s ear, though the breeze quickly pulled it free again. He was reminded of that vision of Enjolras in the low candlelight, with focus for none but him. It felt a special privilege, one he was unsure he deserved.

“I called you beautiful. And you were, you are.” Enjolras smiled.

“Now it is my turn to be flattered.” 

“Beware the fate of Narcissus, with a vanity such as yours.” Grantaire teased. He was loathe to change from the teasing tone, for fear of what that might turn to, but he could not bring himself to ask his question in any way but seriousness. “What convinced you to return?”

Enjolras too sobered, his hand continuing to gently hold Grantaire in position. It seemed to have caught him completely by surprise, which Grantaire felt was almost fair trade for all the questions he had been bombarded with unexpectedly. Enjolras paused for a moment in quiet contemplation.

“It did not sit well with me.” He answered finally. “Musichetta gave me the same room we stayed in last, and the memories of you kept me from straying too far from it. I felt wrong with how we left things. I had to know why it hadn’t made sense.”

“You are smarter than I. For the last few days I thought you well on your way to one of the port cities. Perhaps off to stage revolution in Ballyhale.” Grantaire desperately tried to pull the teasing tone back, unsure with how to respond to such a neutral answer. What was between them was still not well defined, and he could not have expected to answer that question for his other.

“Perhaps I would be, if I did not have something tethering me here.”

Some dark, unpleasant thoughts filled Grantaire’s head then. He had seen how impassioned Enjolras was when speaking of revolution, could a life so far from open minds ever truly suit him? Grantaire did not wish to trap him into an unwanted isolation, not when he seemed meant to face the world and change it. Grantaire was a selfish man, but even a cynic would know the world was more deserving than he.

“Am I holding you back, then?” He asked, unable to stop himself. Enjolras eyed him, clearly trying to understand where Grantaire’s mind was taking him. 

“I have lived that life.” Enjolras said. “I have no connections left in France, and none in Ireland past the limits of this town.” 

“You would if you left it. There is still a fire burning in you, I do not think it is near extinguishing.”

“Let it light this tower then, for I have been happy here.” Enjolras replied.

Grantaire did not have a moment to ask if that meant he would always be so content, or to contest the willful misunderstanding of his words. Enjolras encased his lips again, the intoxication of it chasing the thoughts from his mind with a skill comparable to the strongest of alcohols. 

Even though it was no longer their first, the newness of it had not yet faded and lost its brilliance. How strange it was, to have that feeling of being struck by lightning in the most favorable way. Grantaire wanted to cling to it. Both of his hands came up then, large against Enjolras’s delicate features. They framed his face as Enjolras’s palm fell from shirtfront to waist. He shivered at the touch.

“But what was it you were speaking of before-” Enjolras pulled away again, and Grantaire nearly cried for it. Thoughts were far easier to silence when they were being voiced aloud.

“Should you prefer I answer your questionnaire, or that we continue kissing?” He cut in. 

It was an honest question, if Enjolras was using this to stall him out of discomfort he would easily let them stop. Despite his own discomfort, he was not the only participant in their actions. Enjolras seemed to realize the unvoiced part of his words just as easily, though he did not take the offered chance to stop. Instead, his hand moved from Grantaire’s waist to the small of his back, pulling them closer together. Enjolras leaned close, a clever sort of smile on his face.

“I am quiet as a mouse.” He said.

Grantaire hardly trusted him to keep that promise, but he let himself be pulled back into the embrace. The heat of their shared bodies held back the chill of the air so that he did not at first notice when the pinpricks of rain started to dust the tops of their hair. Only when the drops begin to make an audible sound does he try to speak on it.

“Should we seek cover?” He began, but was sabotaged in the effort by Enjolras who was now the one unwilling to relinquish him to conversation. 

His left thumb made gentle circles under the line of Grantaire’s jaw, sending a pleasant tingling sensation down his spine. Enjolras made a soft noise as Grantaire pushed back into his space, causing a new sort of feeling to spark low in his stomach. Grantaire did not know how he had ever existed happily in the world without knowing that sound, and he would now gladly trade it for all others.

“Your hair is getting wet,” Enjolras said against his lips. Grantaire could feel the smile on them, and he opened his eyes only slightly to greet it.

“Forgive me for being kissed out of my suggestion to move.” He took the hand that had rested on his neck and used it to lead Enjolras inside. “We should make our way down.”

“My progress is so slowed, perhaps you should carry me.” Enjolras suggested, sending an appreciative glance towards Grantaire’s arms. He was glad Enjolras had no clear recollection of the two times he last had, as he was sure the thought would lose its appeal.

“Your memory of my past attempts has misled you, I am no Hercules.” He warned. There would be no carrying, for the safety of them both. Enjolras looked only slightly disappointed.

“I should hope not, as that would make me your Hylas,” He returned. “And I am not overly fond of his fate.” Grantaire disliked the idea as well, having no intent to let the ocean take back this gift it had given him.

They made it hardly two steps down the stairs before Enjolras grabbed the front of his shirt and impatiently pulled him to the side. He used one hand to brace them against the wall of the narrow passage, fingers touching the rough stone near Enjolras’s hip. Each moment Enjolras initiated caused momentary blankness in Grantaire’s mind, he being unable to comprehend them as reality.

This kiss was more heated than the others, Grantaire feeling as if the weeks of pent up emotion starting to boil themselves into a frenzy. He adjusted his position so that one leg slipped between Enjolras’s own, pinning him closer to the wall. The change caused his breath to hitch, breaking the kiss just slightly with his slight shuddering movement.

He took the opportunity the small separation gave him to choose a new place of attention. Grantaire left a trail of kisses from Enjolras’s mouth, along his jaw and down onto his neck. There he gave the pale skin a gentle concentration until he found the place he sought. At his mark he gave a soft kiss before opening his mouth to use teeth and tongue to complete his goal.

Enjolras gasped loud enough to startle them both, and Grantaire would have thought it in distaste had his hips not moved with it. He pulled back to see Enjolras, cheeks flushed and the back of his hand pressed to his mouth in surprise. Enjolras’s eyes were wide, and Grantaire met them with a pleased grin.

“I take it you enjoyed that?”

“Yes.” Enjolras replied, answering the teasing tone with complete sincerity. His hand still muffled the words, so Grantaire moved to take it from that position, lacing their fingers momentarily.

“No need for embarrassment, I think we will find good use of that revelation.”

He moved his teeth to Enjolras’s shoulder, sucking a mark there as well. Enjolras continued to release breathy moans with each scrape of teeth, and Grantaire marvelled in it. He would pay every inch of Enjolras this careful attention if he so could, the only reward he would seek being those soft sounds. Fingers carded through his hair, tensing enough to tug just so slightly whenever Grantaire succeeded in drawing a gasp from him. 

Enjolras exhaled his name with a quiet reverence when he placed a soft kiss near his ear. How intimate it was to hear his name said thus, it was an unfamiliar experience. Most of his past partners had not know his name, nor had he known theirs. He did not think any of them would have been able to match the emotion Enjolras seemed to hold behind it, nor would they have sounded as sweet.

Long fingers at his neck guided his head upward. He followed it, a question already on his lips, only to see on his face what Enjolras's intention was. Grantaire met him halfway, quickly deepening the kiss with open heat. Both of their skill was somewhat lacking, but he hardly cared. He would be happy if Enjolras could not kiss at all, fueled only by the fires of their shared affections.

As it was, they near frantically pulled at each other with no need for finesse. Their entire bodies pressed up close, creating a heated friction that served itself just as well. He used the leg between Enjolras's to further leverage them against the wall, letting their hips join in the movement. Grantaire could hardly remember ever holding someone, or being held so. It was overwhelming.

“Do you want to have me?” Enjolras asked in the gasps for air that broke their embrace.

Had he truly been in a world without consequence, Grantaire knew what he would have answered. He instead pulled back the short distance to see Enjolras clearly, though the loss of contact pained him. As much as he wanted to dissolve mindlessly into passion, this was not a conversation that could go unhad. Enjolras seemed confused by the sudden change, so Grantaire quickly tried to quell his fears with explanation.

“It is not the most comfortable option,” He said seriously, unsure of how much Enjolras knew. He would not let him volunteer for something that many with experience still found difficult. “I am glad to be on the receiving end, should you prefer it. And there are other pursuits as well.”

“I would be glad to pursue them,” Enjolras responded, “But I hope I do not seem so unexperienced as that.” 

He gave Grantaire a small smile, which Grantaire trusted within limitations. Despite the assurance, he would not let Enjolras convince him to do anything they would not both enjoy. This was not something he wanted either of them to regret.

“Let us move to the watch room, I do not think my legs capable of carrying me to the house.” Enjolras added, motivating Grantaire into motion.

He released Enjolras from his position against the wall, though the movement of it made them both overly aware of the certain presences that had sprung to attention. They caused discomfort in the strange shuffle they were forced to take part in to aid their move. Neither were fulling willing to release each other, leading to an ungraceful stumble as they made their way through the door. 

They certainly would have made some sight. Enjolras’s coat colored with the dust of whatever pastel work he had put his back to, and Grantaire still wet from the rain. He would get the dust everywhere if they did not soon remove the coat, which worked as a convenient excuse to put certain favorable actions into motion. He pulled his own off first, then aiding Enjolras in his effort.

He cursed the number of buttons on the waistcoat still, their endless count causing no less frustration than they had before. Enjolras interrupted him momentarily to pull of Grantaire’s own shirt, uninhibited by waistcoat as he was not wearing one. He winced slightly when Grantaire pulled the sleeve from his bad shoulder, though the pain did not seem to last Enjolras long.

“How far we’ve come.” He said quietly, as he unlaced Enjolras's shirt front with the ease his self all those weeks ago would never have achieved. 

“I should hope neither of us have come yet.” Enjolras said with barely disguised glee.

“Clever.” Grantaire said, using his breath to tickle Enjolras’s neck with its nearness. His companion released a small motion of laughter, guiding Grantaire’s face back up into a kiss.

Grantaire felt a hand slip downwards, stealing his breath away momentarily. Enjolras gave him a triumphant look at the stuttering inhale. His touch was gentle, and from the outside of the fabric it provided little more than a tease. 

“I hear in America they take this act on their knees,” Enjolras said thoughtfully, as if this were the time for casual conversation.

“Like a sacrament?” Grantaire replied shakily, burying his head in Enjolras’s shoulder as he bit back a moan. “How crude.”

“Is that your convent learnings catching up with you?” He was caught somewhere between laughing and smacking Enjolras aside the head. 

“Have I bored you so thoroughly that you would prefer to discuss nuns?” Grantaire mourned even speaking of the convent. “Your sense of humor escapes me.”

“With who my teacher was, that does not surprise me.” Enjolras looked at him through half lidded eyes, the self-satisfaction in his response evident. “Perhaps I am baiting you with small talk, as it so bothered you before.”

Despite the laughing tone, Grantaire understood well enough then what Enjolras meant. An offer was being made, both out of what Enjolras could tell from him, and perhaps from his own unwillingness to lead the interaction. Grantaire was grateful for the former, and welcomed the responsibility of the latter.

“Remove your trousers,” He said, “Then lay back on the blanket. It will be slightly more forgiving than the stone.” 

Grantaire was then forced to follow his own advice, undressing as Enjolras did the same. He was hit with an unpleasant bout of insecurity. What was his stocky, haired build to Enjolras’s carved marble form. An angel and gargoyle, what a strange pair they made. The cool air brought little bumps to his skin, and he could not resist shivering.

Enjolras saw the movement, stepping forward to run his hands over Grantaire’s arms. The soft movement was more tickling than warming, but he did not dislike it. Grantaire marvelled at the feeling of skin to skin, how exposed they were to each other. Enjolras continued to guide his hands in tender exploration before resting them on Grantaire’s chest.

“Your arms are well defined,” He murmured, almost as if he did not expect Grantaire to hear it.

“I feel as if this is not the first you have mentioned it.” Enjolras flushed at his reply. 

“We are distracting ourselves.” He said to dispel the laughter his embarrassment caused. Grantaire would not have let him escape it so easily had Enjolras not fallen to his knees and laid back in the blanket in an attitude worthy of the filthiest paintings. “I can think of better uses of our time.”

Grantaire did not need a second invitation, following the movement down in between Enjolras’s legs. He pushed Enjolras’s shoulders to the ground, the force of it knocking Enjolras’s head back to expose his neck. He traced his fingers over the bruises he had left there before pulling the black ribbon from his hair. All the while Enjolras watched him with eyes darkened with interest. 

“I am content with this,” Grantaire reminded him, using the rocking of their hips to emphasize his point. The heat pooled low in his gut proved the honesty of it. “We have no need to take it further.”

“I should like to,” Enjolras responded, “if you would.”

Grantaire answered him with a deep, open kiss. The wet heat of Enjolras’s mouth chased the chill of the air from his mind. Their breathing was hot an irregular, taking up speed the longer they persisted. He could feel both their vulnerabilities poured into it, as well as the assurances. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to take Enjolras entirely apart, to explore every sound and place that would cause them. 

“I will take my time,” Grantaire promised. He laid a gentle kiss on Enjolras’s palm. “Turn over.”

He pulled back to let Enjolras comply, which he did eagerly. The position had always seemed somewhat impersonal to Grantaire, but he hadn’t often minded. In this instance he wished to see Enjolras face, but settled for sweeping his hair aside and kissing between his shoulders as his act of intimacy. Enjolras released a soft sigh at the touch. Grantaire wet his fingers well before leaving yet more kisses down his spine as warning.

At the first finger, Enjolras gave a small noise of discomfort. Grantaire let him adjust, feeling him relax before starting any movement. He worked his hand slowly, using methodical motions to change the sounds to those pleasure. Enjolras began rocking back gently as silent encouragement, tensing slightly when Grantaire passed over that deep spot.

With the insertion of the second, Enjolras released a needy moan and his hands curled into fists. He used the two to scissor Enjolras wider, nearly groaning himself at the sight and feeling of it. The third had him shaking. It took some time of adjustment, but soon had Enjolras releasing a litany of noises that seemed half torn out of him. 

There was something surreal about their entwining position. Grantaire remained convinced that he would be happy for anything Enjolras was willing to give him, but also could hardly comprehend the actions they were now involved in. It had not been long ago that he would never dare imagine such an action occurring between them, and Grantaire feared for the suddenness it seemed to have descended with. Could he be sure that this was what Enjolras wanted, or that he would not regret choosing Grantaire over the lives he could have in the world? 

“A moment,” Enjolras pleaded, causing Grantaire immediately to pull himself away. The words had not sounded pained, but the call to stop sent his already worried mind spiraling.

“What is it?” He asked as Enjolras turned himself over. “Did I hurt you?”

He was answered only with a chaste kiss, Enjolras leaning forward to place one hand at his neck and the other around his waist in a tender embrace. Grantaire’s chest felt tight with emotion, this gesture somehow feeling far more intimate than any of their previous actions. He let himself melt in Enjolras's arms, eyes opening slowly even after Enjolras pulled away. 

“You need not be so hesitant.” Enjolras said. “I will not break, nor will I run at the slightest discomfort.”

“Is that last a pointed commentary?” He asked, not letting the relief Enjolras's words inexplicably brought shine through in his voice. Enjolras gave him a clever smile, forever making him regret unlocking the secrets of Enjolras’s humour, and kissed him again before turning back onto his stomach.

Grantaire stroked himself somewhat in preparation, Enjolras watching over the slope of his shoulder. The knowledge of those eyes on him calmed his nerves as well as they could be. Enjolras trusted him, cared for him in so many unexpected and incredible ways. The least he could offer was to return the favor.

“I am larger than three fingers.” He warned. Enjolras remained relaxed, almost languidly sprawled into his position with Grantaire’s steadying hand at his hip.

“You have prepared me well enough.” Enjolras replied. Grantaire settled to take his word for it.

He pressed into that tight heat slowly, fingers likely digging bruises into Enjolras's side with the ecstacy of the feeling. They inhaled sharply together, Grantaire’s front pressed along Enjolras's spine. He made a noise, though it was caught in his throat with a series of short exhales. He felt Enjolras struggling to relax around the strange intrusion, and he slipped a comforting hand down to his stomach.

Spit served some help to ease the way, but Grantaire kept the motions gentle regardless. He had heard stories of those that had suffered for it, though had been lucky enough to be spared most of the experience. He accompanied the slow, shallow rolling of his hips with equally sensual strokes of his hand, and paid close attention to the angles that sent Enjolras shivering. 

“Spread your legs further.” He asked, Enjolras quickly shuffling to obey. His hand left its place between Enjolras's legs, moving instead to the center of Enjolras’s shoulders.

“A-ah!” Enjolras gasped as Grantaire sank all the way in. The noise sent a jolt of arousal through Grantaire, and he could feel himself pulse deep inside Enjolras. His hips stuttered with the feeling, causing a serious of small spasms in Enjolras's leg. 

Grantaire tipped his head forward, overwhelmed by the tightness and heat. He would have asked Enjolras again if he were in pain, had he not continued to verbalize his enthusiasm so thoroughly. He was forming a rhythm now, repeatedly pushing into Enjolras at an unhurried pace. He could feel sweat forming from the effort of his restraint, his body at war between its two wants of slowly taking Enjolras appart and consuming him in a fit of passion.

The pace did pick up slightly, deep thrusts pulling rough breaths from him with each wave. He lightly bit at Enjolras’s shoulder, the combined forces causing him to cry out. Grantaire felt himself getting close, the years of inaction not serving well for his stamina. Enjolras changed positions, using his hands to prop himself onto all fours with Grantaire still curled over him. 

“I am unsure how much longer I will last.” Enjolras said, though his words ended in a choked gasp that Grantaire took to mean he had found the spot yet again. He shuddered, and Grantaire used an arm wrapped around his waist to support him. 

“I have you.” He promised, gently raking his nails across Enjolras's stomach. He repeated the action several times, dipping teasingly low before continuing. 

“Grantaire!” He whined after yet another caress drew close without satisfaction. Grantaire did not think he would be able to ever again hear indignant voice without it colored by this memory.

He used a roll of his as a further pleasurable torture for them both. Grantaire himself was close, but he wanted to award Enjolras all his focus. He remembered hearing others speak of their faith, and how it made them feel that they transcended their own bodies. That was the sort of worship with which Grantaire approached Enjolras.

Enjolras whined again after yet another cruelly teasing stroke of his hand. He was torn between thrusting up towards Grantaire’s fingers and back towards his hips. Grantaire could see the muscles twitching with in back with conflict, his hips making small stuttering movements in both directions. 

“What is it you want from me, love?” He asked, whispered with hot breath near ear. He pulled back, letting Enjolras sit up somewhat with him. His spine was arched, sinking Grantaire further in still. 

“Everything,” Enjolras replied, hissing at the odd feeling of their changed position. “I should not last long. Your hands, words, anything and I will be gone.”

“Should I be offended by how well you can still speak?” Grantaire asked, earning a breathy laugh.

“There is no power I’ve yet to encounter capable of keeping me from speaking.” He circled his hips, causing them both to groan. “I would count you among the best attempts.”

“I am content with that failure.” He said, kissing the side of mouth as well as their position allowed. Enjolras attempted to reach back as well, but flinched at the odd angle his shoulder attempted. Grantare gave that bone a kiss as well. Sweat had made the skin slick and salty. 

Grantaire moved up to his knees, slipping from Enjolras in the process. He felt the loss with an edge of desperation, echoed by the unhappy noise Enjolras made. He too moved himself to reposition, and Grantaire settled between his legs to realign himself. When he slipped back inside, both men groaned with satisfaction and head fall back towards Grantaire’s shoulder.

The new pose made the movement of his hips easier, allowing him to start thrusting with a stronger tempo. His palms splayed across chest, his face buried between his shoulders. Enjolras covered one hand with his own, the other fist pumping himself with vigour. They both rocked upward in a passionate synchronization, the sound of their breathing and skin hitting skin filling the silence.. 

A series of short, fractured moans from Enjolras broke their rhythm. Grantaire could feel the spasms that accompanied them both under his hands and far more intimately as Enjorlas rode through the waves of his climax. He seemed stiff as a board, save the minuscule convulsions that rippled like shockwaves through his body. When it ended, Enjolras seemed to dissolve in his arms, though Grantaire could still hear his heart beating as rapidly as his own.

Enjorlas ws breathing roughly, so Grantaire maneuvered them both back into a position resting on the ground. He slipped out, feeling some nervousness at the discomforted inhale Enjolras made. Only when he too had laid back, putting some distance between them, did Enjolras turn to face him.

“But you have not finished?” The pulsing, angry presence between Grantaire’s leg made him acutely aware of the fact.

“You are tired, do not mind it.” He said, overcome with an inexplicable shyness. There was no sense in it now, after the act was done, but Grantaire still felt the urge to turn himself away.

“Nonsense,” Enjolras said, shuffling so that he could close the gap Grantaire had created and lean over him. Grantaire felt another pulse of arousal at how thoroughly wrecked he appeared. “It is not so tiresome a favor to repay.”

It did not take long. deft fingers quickly had Grantaire’s toes curling as he strained against the contact. He felt as if he were drowning, or as if he were a rope being wound tighter and tighter with no hope of release. When the orgasm did come, it ripped through him with such incredible force that Grantaire was unsure he would survive it. It was a strike of lightning, a little death.

What he felt then was exhaustion, though his mind was thankfully wiped clean by its strength. Enjolras rested his chin on Grantaire’s chest, watching his breathing slow in the aftermath. The embarrassment had not entirely dissipated, and while he combed through Enjolras’s hair with light touches, he did not meet his eye. 

Beyond their breathing, Grantaire could hear the sound of rainfall outside the tower. A reminder that the world had not stopped its motion as they had stolen these moments together. He felt the moment passing, slipping from his fingers like the last rays of sun on a horizon. He did not know what came next.

“Is something wrong?” Enjolras asked, watching him closely. Grantaire kept his head turned towards the ceiling and closed his eyes, though his hand continued its slow caress.

“I am tired.” He said. “Let us sleep, we can speak more when we wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rictor Norton's online essays are a godsend to anyone ever looking to write some period-piece gay romances. I may have not used the research well, but man am I glad its so accessible 
> 
> Tried to keep it classy, just made it weird. You can read this as Enjolras' first time, as that's supported by canon. I left it intentionally kind of ambiguous.  
Also, please don't try this at home, lube is one of the many wonders of the not rural 1800s world


	20. Resolution

The morning found Grantaire at the top of the tower, though he had long preceded its arrival. By how long he was unsure, knowing only that he had slipped out shortly after Enjolras had been taken by sleep. He didn’t know his motivations for it, only that he had needed to be elsewhere with such a ferocity that it had driven him to dress and flee in complete darkness.

A thick fog swirled around the glass, making the air outside it prickle with water droplets. For that reason Grantaire had kept inside the lantern, though he stared endlessly at the distorted image of the already blurred horizon. The beam was lit, though he doubted it reached any far distance. Grantaire could not seem much longer than a small radius from the tower, making it seem as if the world ended just past the house at its base. 

His thoughts plagued him, the fog offering too little a distraction to avoid them. He was unsure primarily, of what was to come now they had so dramatically changed things. Grantaire was far too cynical to ever consider the possibility of a thing such as this, and was now left wholly unprepared. 

A saner man would leave things be, have joy in what he had in that moment. Grantaire wanted, desperately, to do the same. Had he a less treacherous mind, he would have stayed with Enjolras in his arms and not thought a second past that bliss. If only he were so lucky.

Sound in the stairwell alerted him that Enjolras too had risen. He thought he heard the muffled sound of his name, but he did not respond to it. After some minutes he heard Enjolras sleepily limping up the stairs to find him, knowing well where he was likely to have hidden. Grantaire stayed silent in his watch of the white haze, letting Enjolras be the first to speak at his arrival.

“This has become a rather familiar image.” Enjolras said, moving to sit down beside him. He too looked out, though with some visible confusion at what so captured Grantaire’s attention. He looked about, searching for some explanation. “What is it that brought you up here, was there some issue with the light?” 

“No.” He replied, sounding hollow as they were not the words that his mind wished for him to say. Enjorlas, unsurprisingly, took notice.

“What, then?” He asked again, sounding wary. 

Grantaire’s fingernail scratched at the skin of his thumb. He did not wish to say anything, to ruin their time together, but the words would not let themselves stay unheard for long. Grantaire felt as if he were a pot of water reaching boil, he would soon spill out if not given some chance of release. 

“There is a world out past this tower.” He said quietly. Enjolras watched him from the corner of his eye, though Grantaire did not turn to face him directly.

“I know,” Enjolras replied with a half smile. “The fog hasn’t been so long that I have forgotten it.” It was clear that he did not understand what Grantaire meant by the words, supposing that he must in some way be poking fun. 

Grantaire had an irrational spike of frustration, though he knew it was his own fault for speaking vaguely. He itched for a drink yet again, desperate to feel in some control of his tumultuous emotion. He doubted the comfort of alcohol would truly give him that sense, but it would at least lessen his guilt of it. 

Guilt. That was what he meant to speak of. He felt angry again, though Enjolras still only waited for elaboration. He would ask Enjolras then, he who was always so desperate to ask questions. Let him answer one first, or help to distract him. 

“There is a world,” He repeated, “Full of strife, suffering and all the things you speak against. Are you so sure you would abandon it?” Enjolras sobered, both at what he said and the harsh edge with which he spoke it. 

They both let the words sit for a moment in the air, fogging up the glass before their faces. He could tell Enjolras had not expected this anger. Nor had Grantaire, though he supposed it did fit in his habit. 

“What have I left to abandon?” Enjolras said finally. Grantaire let out a bitter laugh. 

“We both know better than to believe you mean that.” He could see in his peripheral that Enjolras straightened, as he often did when preparing for some argument. Grantaire felt some feeling of success, despite his chest aching at the thought.

“Perhaps that is true, but I still have no wish to leave here.” 

The words felt empty to his ears, as his mind had far spiralled past such placating promises. Enjolras was not fool enough to have missed the unsaid half of Grantaire’s statement, it would seem, hitting the issue that Grantaire was indirectly speaking of with such accuracy. Perhaps he was simply predictable, though Grantaire hardly understood enough to predict himself. 

He felt as he imagined a cornered animal would, savage and fearful. They were as safe as they could be in this tower, but the lack of assailants did not stop Grantaire’s mind from creating abstract ones. Should he imagine a mob at his door or Enjolras leaving it, there was no break from the attack in his mind. His heartbeat behaved as if he were being chased, having done so since he heard Enjolras make his way closer.

“But can you say you will never have that need?” He asked, hating the desperation that wormed its way in. He continued before being able to stop himself, the words ripped from some raw place in his chest. “I would not have you grow to resent me for keeping you here.”

He was near strangling the fingers of his left hand with the force at which he squeezed them. He saw Enjorlas’s demeanor change, body loosening at Grantaire’s words. He moved to take one of the hands from Grantaire’s lap, but he flinched away from the contact. Enjolras sat back, studious.

“I thought us past this, Grantaire.” 

“We spoke a great deal and resolved very little.” Grantaire replied. There was very little they had truly worked past.

“You trivialize it so harshly. None of what I said came easily to me.” Enjolras said, his voice hard. 

Grantaire felt a stab of guilt for demeaning Enjolras’s actions, knowing well he would not have been able to do the same. He remembered how scared he had seemed, perhaps feeling equally to how Grantaire felt now. Grantaire was not the type to face it, rather being the sort to need cornering before he would speak.

“Are you attempting to cast me out again, as you did before?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire could not be sure enough to give an answer. Enjolras took that as one. “I will keep returning here.”

“I want to believe that.” Grantaire closed his eyes. 

“But you do not?”

“No.”

Enjolras was silent again, thinking. At some point Grantaire opened his eyes again, if only to assure himself that Enjolras had not just left him sitting alone in the quiet. His eyes were focused on his ankle, with with how he sat was laid in front of him. With that distraction as his excuse, Grantaire let himself look at Enjolras more directly.

“I can not promise you that I should never again look out from here, only that I would wish to have you at my side if I did.” Grantaire could have laughed at such a ridiculous notion, though it instead pained him. 

“I am not so brave as you.” He said. For all that Enjolras might wish it, he could not swear himself strong enough to stand by him.

“Bravery was not the force that drew me back.” He looked up then, meeting Grantaire’s eyes fully. “I love you, that is why I am here.”

The word reverberated in Grantaire’s mind, though he supposed to Enjolras this may have seemed his second confession. Grantaire too had spoken it, though thoughtlessly in the acts of passion. He doubted Enjolras had even registered its use. It felt strange now to hear it said aloud from another’s mouth. It filled something in him, even if the other holes still stood gaping. 

“Can that not be enough?” Enjolras asked. Grantaire wished for a better answer.

"If I could choose, it would be.” 

He wanted it to, intensely so. Grantaire wanted nothing more than that statement to dispel all of his insecurities and to make him content to take what Enjolras said as truth. If only the mind was as easily taken as the heart by those it chooses to follow. 

“So we have no right to try simply because you have decided the end may make it useless?” Enjolras reached for him again, and this time Grantaire let him. “Let me prove it to you.” He said, taking Grantaire’s hand in his own.

“I would have our lives not be defined by you attempting to convince me of it.” It was cruel for Grantaire to even force it from him now. He should be glad for this, to accept it and convince Enjolras that he wanted to stay, rather than pushing to see if he would do the opposite.

“What is it you want from me, then? Do you want me to leave?” Grantaire was struck with a wave of fear, more intense than that which he had already been feeling.

“No.”

“It seems then that we want the same thing.” He insisted. “Why cause ourselves more complication than that?”

The words made sense, Grantaire knew it. Still they did not quell the cold ache in his chest that whispered of the dangers they would bring to one another. The law was not kind, and nor was the course of human emotion. They could destroy each other, if they so wanted.

“Should you leave again, I do not know if I would survive it.” He said, feeling exposed by the words. Enjolras pressed his hand.

“Then we must stay close.” 

“Now it is you that does not take me seriously.” Grantaire was again frustrated. “Your vision of the world where we can simply speak things into being truth is not an accurate one.”

“There we disagree.” He turned himself so that he faced away from the window, and Grantaire did the same by a control other than his own. Their knees touched in this new position. “If I say I will not leave you, is it not true you will always carry some memory of me?” He asked, placing his other hand against Grantaire’s chest.

“I suppose.” Grantaire admitted, though he could not stop himself from focusing on the insinuation of Enjolras leaving after all. He covered the hand with his own, as if to keep him there by that tie alone.

“Then we know, aside from anything that may occur, that we will always have a part of each other with us.” 

“It is not all resolved so easy as that.” He protested, though he felt himself weakening. 

“Is it not?” Enjolras asked, sounding somewhat self-righteous in his clear confidence that what he said was true. “Can anyone promise an eternity?”

“Christians.” Grantaire said on near reflex. The unexpected jab caused them both to laugh, heads bending towards each other. It was a sweet relief to hear their voices mingled and happy sounding. 

“You are so often in these melancholic states that I am unsure how to pull you from.” He put their foreheads together so that Grantaire had no choice but to look into his eyes. Enjolras offered him a smile. “Listen as the idealist tells the cynic to abandon your wonderings and see what is in front of you.

“The Enlightened mind is not so easily kept from philosophizing.” He pulled away. “I do see the irony of it.” 

The sound of drops hitting the glass drew both their attentions to the outside, where fat droplets had begun to force their way through the fog. They slid down in narrow rivers across the surface, dividing their view into fractured segments. Their hands moved from Grantaire’s chest to join the other joined pair between them. Enjolras and Grantaire both watched for a time before speaking again. 

“Are you able to start a game of chess having every move planned?” Grantaire turned back, confused by the sudden change of conversation. Enjolras looked back awaiting an answer, which Grantaire gave hesitantly for fear of how Enjolras would use it. 

“No,” He replied, “You must respond to the actions of the other player, if you only planned your own moves it would be difficult to win.” Enjolras nodded.

“Exactly.” He said, as if some argument had been won. Grantaire shook his head. 

“I do not understand your meaning.” He said. Enjolras traced some shape into his palm, though of what form he could not tell.

“We know how we start,” He explained, “But we can not guess what choices we will face until they are presented to us. We can not say now whether the game is already lost.” 

Grantaire had no reply for that. He would not say he agreed, but he no longer felt he had the energy to protest it. Perhaps passivity would serve him well, if it was to simply let a good thing happen to him. 

“I am sorry to be like this. You have just woken up, only to be thrown in the midst of my upset.”

“It is fair turnabout for all the times I needed comfort after nightmares, I suppose.”

“Were you plagued by more last night?” Grantaire had left too soon to know. 

“There is little chance of those dreams leaving me soon.” He said sadly. Grantaire looked to their hands, which he now realized was a comfort to them both. Enjolras too looked down. “For all that I should have, I am glad that I did not die on that barricade.”

His tone held something of a hopeful fragility, sparking a similar feeling in Grantaire’s chest. It was by the smallest of chances that they had ever met, and smaller still that they had become something to each other. As Enjolras said, they knew where they started, and they knew each other. If anyone could bring Grantaire to believe in such a thing, it would be the man sitting across from him now.

“I don’t think I will ever love anyone as I love you.” He said, drawing Enjolras’s attention back to his face. It was the first time he had said it so that Enjolras could truly hear it, and he saw the emotion that rose in his eyes. “My world was nothing but grey, then you appear with your bright eyes and fiery words, illuminating it all. How am I ever to recover?” 

“I think you do not wish to.” Enjolras said, watching him closely. He drew one hand from its hold to gently touch the side of Grantaire’s face. He leaned into it, closing his eyes.

“Maybe I do not.” 

He would not wish to have never known Enjolras. Not now, when he had seen all they could be. Perhaps he could place his trust in Enjolras, if not in himself, that they would be happy. They had been, until Grantaire had done his best to destroy it. He would let himself be anchored by the hand on his cheek, a force to keep he and his thoughts from drifting away. 

“Grantaire, can you open your eyes?” He did, finding Enjolras there before him with a worried expression. “Where did your mind take you?”

“To good places.” He promised, moving to take the hand from his face and softly kiss its palm. 

“Where you convinced of good things?” Enjolras asked, watching the motion. 

“I was convinced of possibilities.” He returned, thinking how Enjolras had once used that as a reply. Grantaire meditated over the thought that he had then meant a similar thing. He kissed the wrist as well.

Enjolras pulled away, though he showed no sign of it being out of disinterest in Grantaire’s gestures. Far the opposite, as Grantaire had seen his eyes darken. He moved slowly, and Grantaire let him go. 

“I am resolved to try.” He said, giving answer to the unsaid question in Enjolras’s eyes. His lips tugged at the shape of a smile.

“I could ask nothing more, only perhaps that you believe it.” There was little Grantaire could say to that end, so he chose to speak the truth. 

“I believe in you.” He said. “That is enough for me.”

Their faces were such short distance apart that it did not take much movement to close. They met in an unhurried embrace, slowed by the promise of all the time ahead of them. Here in this tower they had no one but themselves to face, and they chose to do it together.

It was a wonder, then, how they must have appeared to whatever bird or sylph should see them from the air. Two figures, made indistinguishable by the distortion of the glass and rain so that they may well have been one. Or perhaps they seemed two souls touching, for as little as the colors would seem like bodies. A blur of existence, hidden away from the world atop the tower.

The promises in shared breaths were for none but them to hear, speaking to their hearts directly. They swore fealty with their lips, dedication with their hands. Whatever the future was to hold, they were in that moment only an embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel: The 1840s hit and in true Hugo fashion they all die
> 
> Ok on a more serious note: Wow, I am so grateful for the kind comments and reactions I got on this impulse decision I had to finally put one of my ideas into words. I thank everyone who suffered through my un-betaed ramblings and still found it enjoyable.
> 
> I wish I had more time to dedicate to this, but looking at my calendar I either had to rush this ending or leave you all hanging for a year. This is where I wanted to end it, if not precisely how. I'll still likely have time for edits here and there, but I hope this brings some sense of closure to it all.


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